Vernor Vinge: The Witling

Something turned to ice in Bjault’s spine: this petty nobleman could destroy their last hope for rescue if he chose.

But Dzeda bounced to his feet, and some of his cheerful nature returned. “But at the same time, I’m overburdened with soft-heartedness. And curiosity. If your insane scheme works, the future could be an interesting place, indeed.

“Give them whatever they need, Lan,” he said over his shoulder, as he walked to the transit pool. “I’ll be out on the East Line the next few hours, keeping watch on our unfriendly neighbors.”

Through the wide windows of the count’s manse, Ajão could see bands of orange and green the setting sun had spread above the ocean to the west, while the mountains in the east were barely darker than the sky there. The warm bluish twilight that filled the gardens about the manse was infinitely cheerful compared to the stark light and dark they had traveled through at the poles.

Bjault shook his head, trying to concentrate on the fiberene chute that was spread around him. The temptation to quit, to get some sleep, was overpowering. But he knew that part of his fatigue was not natural. Every time he smiled into a mirror he saw the line of blue along his gums. The pain in his gut was getting steadily worse, much as it had on the trip to Grechper. Only this time he might not recover from the attack. If they didn’t make the jump soon, there was a good chance he would be too sick to guide the skiff to a landing once they reached Draere’s island.

Dzeda’s men had moved the skiff into the manse’s meeting hall. It sat on the marble floor, and all around it lay the parachute’s olive fabric. Across the room, Pelio and the others worked to remove every fleck of dirt from the slick material.

But folding the parachute was something which only he, Ajão Bjault, could do. The packing pattern was intricate, and each of the canopy’s movable flaps had to be specially accounted for; a single mistake could be fatal. As the minutes passed, the ache in his tired arms became a pulsing fire. Soon he needed Pelio’s help to compact the mass he had folded.

Early in the afternoon, Ajão had briefly considered a plan that didn’t require the chute to be repacked: if they could get a Tsarangi volunteer, perhaps they could fly the skiff across the ocean, the same way Bre’en had flown them over the mountains. But Draere’s island was nearly twenty thousand kilometers away, and Lan Mileru pointed out that even a two- or three-man team of teleports couldn’t keep the skiff airborne for the hundreds of hours it would take to fly that distance.

So they must stick to the original scheme: Lan would teleport them across the ocean in a single jump; they’d slam up into the air over Draere’s island at better than a kilometer per second, fast enough to rip even a fiberene chute to shreds. Only when their speed fell well below mach one could they pop the chute and sink “gently” to a landing.

Suddenly Bjault stopped work, stared blankly at the pile before him. His mind had wandered; what was next? Back in the Summerpalace, he made Yoninne show him every step of the folding process. She had considered the demand a waste of time, but now the memory of what he had seen there was all he had to guide him.

Yoninne, girl, what I wouldn’t give to have you here swearing at me. Only now did he realize what an effective team they had made. Again and again he’d come up with a good idea, and Yoninne would somehow put together all the details to make it work.

The last colors of sunset had faded when Pelio and Dzeda’s men squeezed the chute into its retaining straps. The fabric no longer looked fragile and gauzy. Ajão’s careful work had transformed it into a thick, dark slab that massed nearly as much as an equivalent volume of rock.

While Ajão and Lan watched, the younger men lifted the pack and set it in the rectangular slot at the top of the skiff. Then Bjault closed the cowling over the chute and crawled through the passenger hatch into the vehicle. He moved slowly now, his body bent. The pain in his middle made it all but impossible to think. For a moment he lay quivering in the darkness—then Pelio called to him, and someone held a torch in front of the hatchway. Ajão gagged on the oily smoke, and forced himself upright. “I’m all right,” he said to the men outside. Back to work: he connected the chute release, then briefly checked the cords holding the lead ballast in place. Finished. He crawled out of the skiff, and stood swaying on the marble floor. “Lan, we’re ready. You can jump us in four hours.” That would be the middle of the night here—but morning at Draere’s island.

Even by the flickering torchlight, Ajão could see real concern on the old Guildsman’s face. “Perhaps you should wait. Just a day or two.”

“No!” Ajão opened his mouth, tried to put his reasons into words, but all he knew was the pain in his middle. The floor swung up toward his face, and everything turned black. He didn’t feel Pelio’s arms break his fall.

As it happened, Bjault’s wishes prevailed, even though he was not awake to argue for them: the Snowmen attacked shortly after midnight.

Ajão struggled to wakefulness, trying ineffectually to shake off the hands on his shoulders. From all around him came the crash of thunder—and something that sounded terribly like small-arms fire. He forced his eyes open and looked blearily at the shadowed face above him.

The count’s voice was barely intelligible over the noise outside: “Blood and bile, good witling, I was beginning to think nothing would stir you—Lan, he’s awake—” He shouted the words over his shoulder, then turned back to the Novamerikan. “We’ve got to get out of here, and fast. Can you walk?”

Bjault came cautiously to his feet, but felt little of the earlier pain. Only now did he see the extent of the disaster that was falling about them. Across the room, Pelio and Mileru were helping county troops slip Yoninne onto a stretcher. Less than three meters from her feet, the thick wood wall lay in shattered ruin. From the moonlit landscape beyond, the sounds of destruction continued. “What’s happening?” he shouted to Dzeda, but a thunderclap blotted out his words. He let the count push him into the room’s transit pool, along with the other witlings and Samadhom.

A second later they emerged in the meeting hall of the county manse. This was several kilometers from the bedrooms, and the sounds of combat were muted here. A moon shone through the room’s crystal windows; the soldiers standing around the water looked pale and worried. Ajão repeated his question, and this time Dzeda replied, “—tried to surprise us. There are a few Sandfolk who have made the pilgrimage to the Tsarangalang transit lake. They are being used to reng the Snowman army into the city. I’ll bet Tru’ud thought if he hit us hard enough he could capture or kill you two before we could react—and he was almost right.”

A nearby soldier interrupted. “The messengers say they’ve got roadblocks on nearly every lake within three leagues, M’Lord.”

Dzeda frowned, and said to Lan Mileru, “What do you seng?”

“I think he’s right, Dzeru. The lakes are quite turbulent.”

“Very well. We’ll pull back. If the Snowfolk keep this up, I’ll be asking for Guild assistance.”

“You’ll have it,” Lan replied.

The count gave instructions to a squad of messengers, then turned to Ajão and Pelio. “By the monsters in the sea, Tru’ud is risking everything to get his hands on you. And as long as you’re in the county he stands a fair chance of succeeding. Adgao … are you up to going through with your plan right now?”