Post by QueenFoxy on Jul 18, 2019 9:06:35 GMT -6
The Smallest Dragon Boy
by Anne McCaffrey
by Anne McCaffrey
When the marvelous Anne McCaffrey died at the age of 85 in 2011, she left a huge hole in the science fiction field. Fortunately, she gave us hundreds of novels, essays, and short stories to help fill some of that hole, although new readers will never get the chance to see her in person, which was always a treat.
Anne McCaffrey is one of science fiction’s most popular authors. After her novel, The White Dragon, (1978) became one of the first science fiction novels to ever hit The New York Times bestseller list, Anne’s work remained a staple of bestseller lists for decades.
Most non-readers of McCaffrey associate her with the Dragonriders of Pern series and, because the series has “dragon” in the title, erroneously believe the series is fantasy. Instead, it examines human history on a planet called Pern. Science fiction tropes abound—a planet with an odd orbit, spaceships, telepathy, lost (but useful) technology, as well as the existence of the Other on two levels—the dragons themselves and the dragonriders, who bond with those dragons.
If Pern were the only thing Anne McCaffrey ever wrote, it would cement her place in science fiction forever. But it’s not. She also wrote the Brain & Brawn Ship series, which features such classic tales as The Ship Who Sang, the Catteni series, the Talents universe, and more series than I can name in this brief introduction.
McCaffrey’s importance to the field cannot be understated. She is the first woman to win a Hugo for fiction. (The first woman to win a Hugo period was Elinor Busby who, along with F. M. Busby, Burnett Toskey, and Wally Weber, won the Best Fanzine award in 1960.) McCaffrey was also the first woman to win the Nebula Award, winning it in the fourth year the award was given out.
Her awards are too numerous to list here, but they include the Science Fiction Writers of America Grand Master award, several lifetime achievement awards, and the Golden Pen award, which is given by children to their favorite author.
With such a vast array of excellent fiction to choose from, I found it hard to pick the best story for this volume. McCaffrey excels at the novella length, and my favorites of hers are the longer pieces. Because of my word-length constraints for this volume, I spent a lot of happy hours reading her shorter stories.
And then I came across “The Smallest Dragonboy,” which I had not read before. It does everything I wanted in the perfect McCaffrey story. It’s entertaining, touching, and compelling. And it’s in her best known series.
If you’ve never read any of Anne McCaffrey’s work, this story will open doors for you that will keep you reading her excellent fiction for decades to come.
* * *
Although Keevan lengthened his walking stride as far as his legs would stretch, he couldn’t quite keep up with the other candidates. He knew he would be teased again.
Just as he knew many other things that his foster mother told him he ought not to know, Keevan knew that Beterli, the most senior of the boys, set that spanking pace just to embarrass him, the smallest dragonboy. Keevan would arrive, tail fork-end of the group, breathless, chest heaving, and maybe get a stem look from the instructing wing-second.
Dragonriders, even if they were still only hopeful candidates for the glowing eggs which were hardening on the hot sands of the Hatching Ground cavern, were expected to be punctual and prepared. Sloth was not tolerated by the Weyrleader of Benden Weyr. A good record was especially important now. It was very near hatching time, when the baby dragons would crack their mottled shells, and stagger forth to choose their lifetime companions. The very thought of that glorious moment made Keevan’s breath catch in his throat. To be chosen—to be a dragonrider! To sit astride the neck of a winged beast with jeweled eyes: to be his friend, in telepathic communion with him for life; to be his companion in good times and fighting extremes; to fly effortlessly over the lands of Pern! Or, thrillingly, between to any point anywhere on the world! Flying between was done on dragonback or not at all, and it was dangerous.
Keevan glanced upward, past the black mouths of the weyr caves in which grown dragons and their chosen riders lived, toward the Star Stones that crowned the ridge of the old volcano that was Benden Weyr. On the height, the blue watch dragon, his rider mounted on his neck, stretched the great transparent pinions that carried him on the winds of Pern to fight the evil Thread that fell at certain times from the skies. The many-faceted rainbow jewels of his eyes glistened fleet-ingly in the greeny sun. He folded his great wings to his back, and the watch pair resumed their statuelike pose of alertness.
Then the enticing view was obscured as Keevan passed into the Hatching Ground cavern. The sands underfoot were hot, even through heavy wher-hide boots. How the bootmaker had protested having to sew so small! Keeven was forced to wonder why being small was reprehensible. People were always calling him “babe” and shooing him away as being “too small” or “too young” for this or that. Keevan was constantly working, twice as hard as any other boy his age, to prove himself capable. What if his muscles weren’t as big as Beterli’s? They were just as hard. And if he couldn’t overpower anyone in a wrestling match, he could outdistance everyone in a footrace.
“Maybe if you run fast enough,” Beterli had jeered on the occasion when Keevan had been goaded to boast of his swiftness, “you could catch a dragon. That’s the only way you’ll make a dragonrider!”
“You just wait and see, Beterli, you just wait,” Keevan had replied. He would have liked to wipe the con-temptuous smile from Beterli’s face, but the guy didn’t fight fair even when a wingsecond was watching. “No one knows what Impresses a dragon!”
“They’ve got to be able to find you first, babe!”
Yes, being the smallest candidate was not an enviable position. It was therefore imperative that Keevan Impress a dragon in his first hatching. That would wipe the smile off every face in the cavern, and accord him the respect due any dragonrider, even the smallest one.
Besides, no one knew exactly what Impressed the baby dragons as they struggled from their shells in search of their lifetime partners.
“I like to believe that dragons see into a man’s heart,” Keevan’s foster mother, Mende, told him. “If they find goodness, honesty, a flexible mind, patience, courage—and you’ve got that in quantity, dear Keevan—that’s what dragons look for. I’ve seen many a well-grown lad left standing on the sands., Hatching Day, in favor of someone not so strong or tall or handsome. And if my memory serves me”—which it usually did: Mende knew every word of every Harper’s tale worth telling, although Keevan did not interrupt her to say so—”I don’t believe that F’lar, our Weyrleader, was all that tall when bronze Mnementh chose him. And Mnementh was the only bronze dragon of that hatching.”
Dreams of Impressing a bronze were beyond Keevan’s boldest reflections, although that goal dominated the thoughts of every other hopeful candidate. Green dragons were small and fast and more numerous. There was more prestige to Impressing a blue or brown than a green. Being practical, Keevan seldom dreamed as high as a big fighting brown, like Canth, F’nor’s fine fellow, the biggest brown on all Pern. But to fly a bronze? Bronzes were almost as big as the queen, and only they took the air when a queen flew at mating time. A bronze rider could aspire to become Weyrleader! Well, Keevan would console himself, brown riders could aspire to become wingseconds, and that wasn’t bad. He’d even settle for a green dragon: they were small, but so was he. No matter! He simply had to Impress a dragon his first time in the Hatching Ground. Then no one in the Weyr would taunt him anymore for being so small.
Shells, Keevan thought now, but the sands are hot!
“Impression time is imminent, candidates,” the wingsecond was saying as everyone crowded respectfully close to him. “See the extent of the striations on this promising egg.” The stretch marks were larger than yesterday.
Everyone leaned forward and nodded thoughtfully. That particular egg was the one Beterli had marked as his own, and no other candidate dared, on pain of being beaten by Beterli at his first opportunity, to approach it. The egg was marked by a large yellowish splotch in the shape of a dragon backwinging to land, talons outstretched to grasp rock. Everyone knew that bronze eggs bore distinctive markings. And naturally, Beterli, who’d been presented at eight Impressions already and was the biggest of the candidates, had chosen it.
“I’d say that the great opening day is almost upon us,” the wingsecond went on, and then his face assumed a grave expression. “As we well know, there are only forty eggs and seventy-two candidates. Some of you may be disappointed on the great day. That doesn’t necessarily mean you aren’t dragonrider material, just that the dragon for you hasn’t been shelled. You’ll have other hatchings, and it’s no disgrace to be left behind an Impression or two. Or more.”
Keevan was positive that the wingsecond’s eyes rested on Beterli, who’d been stood off at so many Impressions already. Keevan tried to squinch down so the wingsecond wouldn’t notice him. Keevan had been reminded too often that he was eligible to be a candidate by one day only. He, of all the hopefuls, was most likely to be left standing on the great day. One more reason why he simply had to Impress at his first hatching.
“Now move about among the eggs,” the wingsecond said. “Touch them. We don’t know that it does any good, but it certainly doesn’t do any harm.”
Some of the boys laughed nervously, but everyone immediately began to circulate among the eggs. Berterli stepped up officiously to “his” egg, daring anyone to come near it. Keevan smiled, because he had already touched it—every inspection day, when the others were leaving the Hatching Ground and no one could see him crouch to stroke it.
Keevan had an egg he concentrated on, too, one drawn slightly to the far side of the others. The shell had a soft greenish-blue tinge with a faint creamy swirl design. The consensus was that this egg contained a mere green, so Keevan was rarely bothered by rivals. He was somewhat perturbed then to see Beterli wandering over to him.
“I don’t know why you’re allowed in this Impression, Keevan. There are enough of us without a babe,” Beterli said, shaking his head.
“I’m of age.” Keevan kept his voice level, telling himself not to be bothered by mere words. More to come. ~
