Vernor Vinge: The Witling

“Hmm,” said Bjault, as if this were some very encouraging answer. The archaeologist rose stiffly and walked over to the skiff.

Pelio watched him for a moment, then said to Yoninne, “You told me once that yonder sphere can fly.”

“Yes, but only downward, to slow a fall.” She didn’t try to explain the workings of the parachute. Face it, girl: we’re stuck. Even if Bre’en were exaggerating—even if the walk to the mountains were a piece of cake—it still wouldn’t do them any good. They needed the skiff, too. Without it, they couldn’t carry out Ajão’s plan for getting to the telemetry station on Draere’s island.

As they talked, Bjault stood silently, looking first at the skiff and then at the ragged line of mountains to the west. Suddenly he shouted in Homespeech, “That’s it! Look, Yoninne: we have a good parachute and we have Bre’en. We can teleport high-velocity air into the chute and lift ourselves right up by our bootstraps!” A grin split his dark face from ear to ear.

Leg-Wot realized her mouth was hanging open. Why, Bre’en could sail their skiff right over the mountains into County Tsarang. Suddenly she was on her feet, running through the brush to Ajão and the skiff. She pulled open the hatch, and clambered into the still-cool darkness. A loud sprong sounded as she pulled the chute release, and the olive-colored, fiberene parachute burst from the top of the skiff’s heat-scarred hull. She grabbed a fold from the heavy pack and pulled streamer after streamer of gauzy fiberene onto the ground. Bjault tried ineffectually to help.

All the while, Pelio and Bre’en looked on with expressions of wonder and—in Bre’en’s case—suspicion. Yoninne turned to them. “I was wrong, Pelio.” She waved at the hundreds of square meters of olive chute spread across the rocks and bushes. “Using Bre’en’s Talent, we can fly.” She explained what the Snowman would have to do.

Thredegar Bre’en had risen to his knees to stare at them. He swayed slightly from side to side, and his face was filmed with sweat. But he seemed to understand what she wanted, even if he didn’t see what the effect would be. Finally he said, “You’ve been working me for hours. How much longer do you think I can go on?”

She glanced at Pelio, saw that the prince couldn’t tell if Bre’en were faking or not. Bre’en certainly hadn’t been getting as much rest as their pilots had during the trip to the North Pole. But had those rest-stops been a matter of comfort or necessity? Then she remembered the med-kit in the skiff. The kit contained booster drugs. Perhaps they wouldn’t help—perhaps they would blot out what Talent the Snowman could still use—but the alternative was simply to threaten the fellow, and that ploy had already been used for all it was worth. She started toward the skiff’s hatch and said to Bre’en, “I’ve got some, uh, potions here that should bring your strength back.” She might as well seem confident, anyway.

For an instant she saw stark terror in the Snowman’s face, and realized how thoroughly his people must respect the witlings’ “magic.” Bre’en’s fear turned to dark anger, and the man straightened, his fatigue visibly diminished. What she had offered as help was actually the greatest threat she could have made.

“All right, then,” Pelio said to Bre’en. “Let’s get aboard.”

Yoninne spent a few extra seconds outside the skiff, trying to spread the chute as far as possible across the thicketed ground. She worked with frantic haste, and tried to suppress the constant urge to look over her shoulder at the marsh. Now that they had a means of escaping, she expected their pursuers to come popping into existence at any moment.

At last she climbed into the dark interior of the skiff, leaving the hatch ajar. Things were even more crowded than when the powered sledge had been aboard. Samadhom, Bre’en, and the widings shared the skiff with several tons of carefully seated lead ballast. They would need that ballast if they ever reached County Tsarang, but for now it only made their task more difficult. She settled into the webbed pilot’s seat—left vacant for her by Ajão, who apparently realized she would need as much room as possible.

“Start off slowly, Bre’en. We don’t know just how this will work.”

The Snowman—crammed between herself and Pelio—didn’t say anything, but the brush outside the hatch cracked and strained in a sudden gust of wind. Through the skiff’s window slits, Yoninne saw the chute press itself against the ground. “Not that way,” she said abruptly. “Reng in air from the northwest.”

The breeze vanished for a moment, then returned. The olive fiberene floated upward as the air moved over it. In seconds, the canopy had bellied out before them, tugging the shrouds that extended horizontally from the top of the skiff. Pelio gasped as he looked through the narrow windows at the immense olive disk and finally realized just how it might be possible for them to fly. But the wind barely filled the chute; its lower edge still rested on the ground. Bre’en was probably stalling, but Leg-Wot did not object. They’d get their necks broken if they didn’t handle this takeoff cautiously. “More,” was all she said to their hostage.

The wind became a shrieking, pulsing hurricane, as the Snowman teleported gout after gout of air into the canopy. The shrouds bounced back and forth, absorbing the irregular thrust, and the skiff lurched forward with a whiplash, rocking motion. Something—a boulder?—crashed against the hull, sending them half a meter into the air. Bre’en’s windstorm was dragging them across the jagged stones that surrounded the marsh. The skiff’s interior became a jumble of randomly extended hands and feet as everyone—except Yoninne and Bre’en, who were strapped down—caromed wildly about. Leg-Wot pulled hard on the trim controls with little effect.

“Give us some up, or we’ll all die,” she screamed at the Snowman. “Jump the air in from further west,” she added, jabbing him in the side. Bre’en got the message, for suddenly the chute swung twenty degrees into the air, and after one last bone-crunching collision, the skiff was—provisionally—airborne. The noise suddenly faded, though they were still being dragged along by Bre’en’s wind storm: when Leg-Wot looked out the hatch she saw scrub and rocks streaming past just a couple of meters below. If they hit anything now, the hull would crack open. She worked at the chute’s trim controls, trying to direct the thrust. The controls were manual, but well designed, and soon their climb angle was almost forty-five degrees. The ride was still bumpy—much like the antique pulse-jet her father once let her fly—but she had control and they were putting distance between themselves and the ground.

The thrust came ragged now; Bre’en lay gasping in his webbed seat. Leg-Wot touched his arm. “Rest for a moment.”

The other nodded without looking up and the gale roaring around the skiff became more of a breeze. Yoninne pushed open the hatch and looked at the lands below. The skiff’s altimeter said they were twenty-five hundred meters up. She could believe it: the ground looked soft—almost velvety—and the grazing sunlight sent long blue shadows across the hills. At their present sink rate, about eight meters per second, Bre’en could relax for a minute or so.

Behind them, a dusky green ring sat in the desert—the poisoned oasis they had just departed. But that marsh was no longer empty! An egg-shaped road boat had materialized at the center of the swamp. And she thought she could make out tiny figures standing in the dry brush at its margin.

Pelio leaned past Bre’en to look out the hatch. For a moment he just stared; then he laughed. “We’re too far up. The fools can see us but they can’t seng us. Safe. We’re safe!” Suddenly he seemed to realize just how much sheer empty space separated them from the ground. He shivered, and carefully retreated from the opening.