Vernor Vinge: The Witling

“I don’t—” he began, then stopped. To the left, the curving hillside was broken down almost to the level of the water, and Ajão could see out, beyond, and down. Far below, through that V-shaped cut, was the ocean. And on the horizon was a tiny strip of green. For a moment he just stared, unable to fit perspective to the view. Then he understood. This last jump had taken them to a lake set in the cone of an extinct island volcano.

It was hard to believe that less than half an hour earlier he had seen snow and felt a wind so cold it frosted his face.

“Well?” came Leg-Wot’s flat voice.

Ajão tried to recover his line of thought. “I don’t believe the Azhiri expend significant energy when they teleport things. Have you noticed that when other boats jump, a mass of water splashes out from their departure point?”

“Yes—” From across the boat, they heard footsteps and laughter. Several Azhiri, all dressed in light kilts, slipped over the railing and splashed into the water. Seconds later, Ajão saw the same three wading out of the lake toward a small group that had gathered, happily waving and shouting, on the gleaming beach. This was clearly journey’s end. Hadn’t Yoninne noticed?

“So,” said Ajão, “I think their teleportation is actually an exchange of matter. When they jump somewhere, they simultaneously teleport the matter they displace back to their departure point.” It made sense. Something had to be done with the air or water that occupied the destination. Otherwise, matter would be teleported into matter, with explosive results. By Archimedes’ law, the weight of a boat is equal to the weight of the water and air it displaces; so when they teleported upward, the work required to lift their boat was balanced by the energy released in lowering the exchange mass to the departure point.

The guards were unstrapping the two prisoners now, pulling them to their feet. But Yoninne clung tenaciously to the conversation. And Ajão could see why now. The nobleman—Pelio—and his entourage were descending the wooden stairs from the upper decks. Ajão could see the somber, almost sullen, look on the boy’s face, and hear the cheerful conversation of those around him. Poor Yoninne.

“I see what you mean,” said Leg-Wot, her voice strangely tense. “So that’s another reason why the Azhiri jump from water.”

“I think he’s coming down here, Yoninne,” said Bjault.

Leg-Wot bit her lip, nodded stiffly. “What … what shall I do?”

“Just be friendly. Try not to tell him too much about our origins, at least until we’re sure the Azhiri really are technologically backward. But most important, get that maser .”

Pelio and company had reached the first deck and were walking purposefully toward the Novamerikans. Finally Yoninne said softly, painfully, “Okay … I’ll try.” For an instant he thought she might break beneath the pressure of her embarrassment and fear, but then their guards urged them to attention, and they were confronted by Pelio.

One of Pelio’s favorite places was his study in the North Wing of the Summerpalace. The room was an intricate melding of blackwood and quartz. It perched near the crest of the tree- and vine-shrouded ridge that ran all the way around the North Wing’s private transit lake. From one window he could see the white sands and palms surrounding that lake, while from another he could look over the ridge at the ocean below, and the strip of green that was the coast of the southern continent of the Summerkingdom. The room had been designed so that a warm breeze always floated from one window or another, and no matter what the time of day, sunlight filtered down upon his writing desk in shades of green.

There were many rooms in the palace that had better views, and there were many rooms more finely constructed and more beautifully furnished. But this room was something none of the thousands of others were: it had been designed especially for him and his … peculiarities. Pelio was eternally grateful that his father permitted him quarters that, by the standards of imperial architecture, were so grotesque. (Or perhaps the king simply realized that with this room it would be easier to keep the prince out of the public eye.) Whatever the reason, the study had been a wonderful gift: it really wasn’t a single room, but was partitioned into five separate chambers, connected by doorways —just like some peasant’s hutch in the far north, where transit pools were an uncomfortable inconvenience.

Thus the “study” was actually a bedroom, a dining room (with iceboxes that could store up to a nineday of meals), a library, and a bath. Once within his study, Pelio was independent of the servants he normally needed simply to move from one room of the palace to another. Often the prince-imperial stayed ninedays at a time here, alone except for Samadhom and the servants who brought food.

Now Pelio sat at his blackwood writing desk with its glasslike surface and engargoyled drawers, and tried to find just the right words to put across the deception he was planning. The first part of the letter came easily. It was in the antique format prescribed by royal etiquette:

To: Our noble cousin Ngatheru-nge-Monighanu-nge-Shopfelam-nge-Shozheru—

Actually, Ngatheru was in the fifth tier of the peerage, but on the other hand, he did hold a direct commission from King Shozheru. Besides, it should flatter the old scoundrel to be addressed with only two names between his and the king’s.

From: Pelio-nge-Shozheru, Prince of the Inner Kingdom, Emperor-to-be of All Summer, and First Minister to the King-Imperial.

That last title was an archaic touch, but perhaps it would give Ngatheru the idea that Pelio had been delegated the royal powers usual to an heir apparent of Pelio’s age. Hopefully, the baron-general was far enough from the gossip of the court that he did not realize just how completely Pelio was frozen out of the ruling circles.

On this seventh of the fifteen nineday of Autumn in the Year of Shozheru 24, we bid thee GREETINGS:

So much for what came automatically. Pelio’s pen poised above the vellum. The sap oozing from the pen’s cut nib had almost hardened before he set the device back in its holder. He was at a loss for words; rather, he was terribly afraid his lies would be transparent to Ngatheru. The girl’s dark, elvish face rose from memory to blot out the letter before him. She had been so reserved when he talked to her on the yacht yesterday. She carried herself like one freeborn, as though she didn’t even know she was a witling. She spoke respectfully, but he almost had the feeling she thought herself superior to those around her. Both she and her immensely tall companion were strange creatures, filled with contradiction and mystery. All of which added to his resolve to keep her near—even if it meant lying, even if it meant usurping the royal prerogative.

Pelio sighed and retrieved the pen. He might as well get something down. After all, he could always redraft the thing before he sent it. Begin with the usual flattery:

Your continued command of our garrison at Atsobi is a great comfort to us, good Ngatheru. We still remember with pleasure your eviction of the Snowfolk squatters near Pfodgaru just one year ago. Our northern marches are often perilous, and we have great need of someone with your vigilance to stand guard there.

In particular, we took note of your alert interception of two trespassers on 4/15/A/24. As you know, the king is ever desirous of having current and—as nearly as possible—firsthand knowledge of such activities. So it was that we took it upon ourselves to visit Bodgaru and assume personal custody of the captured individuals.