Vernor Vinge - The Witling

Then a faint meep came from the furry hulk, and Pelio looked up triumphantly. Leg-Wot felt like howling with joy. She opened the spill flaps a trifle and the skiff sank toward the lake below at almost fourteen meters per second. She pushed the hatch all the way back and morning sunlight streamed over her shoulder into the cabin. The breeze whistling up around them brought the smells of green, growing things. In just a few more seconds we’ll be down there, safe.

Four hundred meters up. Somehow a little sense crept through her euphoria. “Pelio,” she said, “get between Samad-hom and Bre’en, will you?” Before, threats had been sufficient to keep the Snowman in line; no doubt, Bre’en had been convinced of the hopelessness of the witlings’ cause. But now that they were actually on the point of winning, he might try something desperate.

Pelio shifted Sam’s weight onto Ajão, then turned to face Thredegar Bre’en. He steadied himself with one hand and held the machete in the other.

One hundred meters: Yoninne closed the spill flaps. She loosened her harness and leaned out the hatch, at the same time keeping her left hand on the trim stick. They were coming down near the edge of the lake—away from the piers—where she hoped the water was shallow; weighted down as it was, the skiff would float like a lead balloon.

Ashore, a crowd of locals stood gaping up at them; word travels fast in a society of teleports. If their wonder turned to fear they might shoot the skiff out of the sky.

The ground was so close now she could see single blades of grass growing between the stone blocks around the water’s edge. She trimmed the chute across a microscopic updraft and estimated their sink rate at only six or seven meters per second. They’d strike the water more “gently” then a road boat coming out of a one-league jump.

Crump. The bolt of wind that slammed against the skiff was far too savage to be natural. Yoninne was pitched halfway out the hatch before the harness caught her. For an instant she thought some overanxious local had attacked them, but as she pulled herself back into the cabin, she saw that Pelio had fallen forward, that Bre’en had pinned his knife hand.

The Snowman kicked wildy at Sam and Ajão. Sam yelped twice and was silent. Bre’en hesitated just a second as he realized the animal was again impotent. Then he turned on Pelio.

“No!” screamed Yoninne as she lunged across the tiny space that separated them, her hands joined in a double fist. Bre’en twisted out of her way, and for what seemed an endless time his small eyes glared malevolently into hers.

Something exploded within her and she saw and felt and heard no more.

The Guildsman looked nothing like Thengets del Prou. Lan Mileru was a small man—even by Azhiri standards—and very old. The veins stood like a lace net across his round face, and his every motion was cautious, slow. Now he sat hunched over the map table, his rheumy eyes straining to follow the text of the letter before him.

From across the table, Pelio watched with a kind of desolate indifference. There hadn’t been much life in the boy since Yoninne was—Ajão turned to look out the window, force -ably supressing his line of thought.

Mileru’s house was near the center of Tsarangalang. To the right Bjault could see the city’s transit lake, and beyond it stood a room of the count’s manse. There were only three or four other buildings in sight. Most were constructed of wood, the timbers worn and dry. Compared to the Summerkingdom, County Tsarang was arid and underpopulated. Only intense irrigation kept its orchards green. And apparently that irrigation system was one of the chief points of contention between the county and its Sandfolk neighbors.

Guildsman Mileru’s veined and trembling hand slid Prou’s letter back across the table to Ajão. “The letter is authentic, sir.” He spoke with a thin, fragile voice. “Thengets del Prou’s self-confident swagger is unmistakable. The boy is clever—and I don’t mean simply Talented: I am inclined to believe what he says of you, fantastic though that be. And therefore, I must do the favor that he, and you, asked of me. When Count Dzeda is informed of the situation, I am sure that he will cooperate, too: the count is an honorable and imaginative man.” And a wild man, too , thought Bjault. When they were pulled from the drowned skiff, it had been Count Dzeda who stood hip-deep in the water, shouting directions at his men. He acted more like a shop foreman than a nobleman—and his people didn’t hesitate to talk back to him. Nevertheless, the rescue had been accomplished with dispatch.

“But,” continued Lan Mileru, “is it really safe to take the injured woman? From what Thengets del Prou says, I do believe your people could pick her up later.”

At this, Pelio gave Ajão a questioning look.

The Guildsman might have a point. Yoninne , thought Bjault, will my scheme kill you? Or are you already dead?

Just an hour earlier, they had left her in the count’s manse, on the far side of the transit lake. There had been nothing they could do for the girl. She lay unmoving, her eyes closed, her breath barely detectable. The count’s physician (perhaps “barber” or “faith healer” was a better title) had leaned over the space pilot to push back her eyelids.

“As you say, she is alive,” the Azhiri doctor said. “But that is about all. Someone kenged her; it’s a miracle she wasn’t lulled instantly. Perhaps she has some defenses against the Talent, even though you say she is a witling.”

“No, it was Samadhom,” Pelio said darkly, and reached under the couch to pet the animal’s furry hulk. The prince-imperial had been kneeling beside Yoninne’s body ever since she was brought in, but these were the first words he had added to the conversation.

Bjault looked down at the girl. Without her action there in the final seconds of the skiff’s descent, Thredegar Bre’en could most likely have kenged them all—since the watchbear had been barely conscious after Bre’en kicked him in the face. But Yoninne had paid a high price in saving their lives: the tissues of her brain were torn and jumbled by Bre’en’s teleportive butchery. It was indeed a miracle, though perhaps an unhappy one, that her body continued to live.

Pelio broke the long silence that had followed his own remark. “Will… will she ever be herself again?” His tone was pleading.

“Your Highness, you know how rarely anyone is injured yet not killed by a keng attack. In fifteen years of Desertfolk raids, I’ve seen it happen only four times. In three of those cases the victim died within hours. In the fourth—well, the fourth fellow slowly wasted away, died without ever regaining his senses.”

The physician had no theoretical expertise, but Ajão saw that he was right: either Yoninne’s body would quickly die—like an engine without a governor—or else it would continue to function till it starved to death. If the first, then the jump to Draere’s island could do her no harm. And if the second, then she had everything to gain by going. Most likely, Draere had left a first-aid cache at the telemetry station; that was the usual procedure at stations that might be revisited in the future. There would be drugs there, perhaps even intravenous feeding equipment. He could keep Yoninne’s body alive till rescue came, till competent medics had a chance to resurrect her mind.

The thought brought him back to the present, and Lan Mileru’s questioning gaze. “She’ll make the jump along with Prince Pelio and myself.”

They were interrupted by the sounds of splashing water. Two men wearing kilts of county blue climbed from the room’s transit pool. “Gentlemen,” the taller of the two announced, “the Count of—”