The Witling

by Vernor Vinge

  Bjault twisted around on his couch, trying to take in every detail. This boat was the strangest vehicle he had seen in all his 193 years. In basic form it was an oblate spheroid. The hull at least followed this description perfectly, while the three-tiered deck structure only approximately filled the outline of a spheroid. The craft sat low in the water, and its construction seemed much stronger than the planet’s gravity required. Heavy wooden beams and thick planking were used everywhere. And though the craft was rich with ornamentation—paintings, tapestries, precious-metal inlays—there was no grillwork, and no overhanging ornaments. There was also no visible means of propulsion: no masts, no oarlocks.

  Ajão found himself gathering all this in with a speed and interest he had not felt since … since he finished his exhumation of the library ruins at Ajeuribad, back on Homeworld more than a century before. His reconstruction of relativity theory from the charred microfilm records had eventually put Homeworld back in touch with the stars, after the two-thousand-year-long Interregnum. But what we’ve discovered here could be yet more important, thought Ajão. He almost felt young again.

  The crewmen and guards around them seemed to tense. Whatever it was, it would happen any second now, though Ajão sensed nothing himself. He looked at Leg-Wot and she shook her head uncertainly. He glanced across the water at the shoreline two hundred meters to the east. The land beyond was rugged. The triple crown of the bluish green pines were lightly dusted by snow.

  There was no flicker: the landscape simply vanished, was replaced by another much greener, much darker. Simultaneously his ears popped and the bottom dropped out of his stomach. Then the boat smashed back into the water and his couch rammed against his back. Around them the lake waters rose in a massive ring wall. Through the sounds of shattered water he heard the boat’s timbers groan as they absorbed the sudden acceleration.

  And the boat sat bobbing in the lake—a lake, anyway. It certainly wasn’t the one they had been in a moment before.

  The sky was dark, the air warm and wet. At first he thought it was night, but as his eyes adjusted, he realized that this was a normal overcast day. As the sounds of their arrival died, he heard the rain cascading past them along the boat’s curving hull, falling upon the lake to make myriad transient craters in the water.

  Boats flickered in and out of existence across that surface, sending good-sized waves splashing this way and that. Along the water’s edge, camouflaged craft—military boats?—were arranged in neat rows, like pleasure boats in some Homeworld marina. Inland—obscured by the rain and trees—there was a collection of low, squat buildings with slit windows, all very reminiscent of field fortifications used back on Homeworld toward the end of the Interregnum: again, evidence that the Azhiri possessed some analog of automatic weapons and artillery. Somehow he had to fit that evidence with the rest of his theory.

  Ajão turned to Leg-Wot, who had recovered from their abrupt arrival and the transformed landscape much faster than he. “You felt that jolt when we arrived, Yoninne? That’s one good reason why these folks prefer to teleport out of water.”

  Leg-Wot’s eyes widened in understanding. “The planet’s rotational speed.”

  Ajão nodded. “At first glance teleportation seems like a simple—if supernormal—trick: you disappear at one point and appear at another, without ever suffering the inconvenience of having been in between. But closer inspection shows that nature imposes certain restrictions on even the supernormal. If you are moving relative to your destination, then there is naturally going to be a collison when you arrive—and the faster you’re going, the harder the crash. This world rotates once every twenty-five hours, so points along the equator move eastward at better than five hundred meters per second, while points north and south rotate at correspondingly slower speeds. Teleporting across the planet’s surface is like—”

  “—Like playing hopscotch on a merry-go-round,” said Yoninne. “And so they jump into water to cushion the impact of their arrival. Ha! I bet that accounts for those lake chains we saw from orbit: these people have to teleport in short jumps from puddle to puddle.” Ajão nodded. Even with water to cushion the impact, these boats would be shattered if they splashed into their destination at more than a few meters per second. So they could not safely teleport more than a few hundred kilometers at a stroke. No, that wasn’t quite right: from a given point in the northern hemisphere, you could teleport due south to the point whose south latitude was the same as your north latitude (and vice versa), since such pairs of points have the same velocity. But that was a quibble. Most long distance trips would require many jumps—and therefore strings of many transport lakes.

  “But,” continued Leg-Wot, “we should have seen this from orbit. We had plenty of pictures of these lakes and the boats in them. If those jackasses back on Novamerika had only spared us some decent reconnaissance equipment, we could have had continuous coverage of our ground track, and we would have seen these guys teleport. Hell, if Draere’s people hadn’t been so anxious to set up that telemetry station landside, they might have stayed in orbit long enough to—”

  She was interrupted by the boat’s warning whistle. Ajão wondered just how that sound was generated. Jump. Again he felt the sinking sensation as the boat rose westward from the surface of their destination lake, then smashed back into the water. It was raining here just as heavily as before, but they had definitely moved: this new lake was huge, and he could see dozens of other boats bulking darkly through the gloom. Long wooden buildings crowded the shoreline. Warehouses? Along the water’s edge, work crews in slickers tied boats into the piers. The scene was busy, but there weren’t as many laborers as Bjault would have expected in a medieval harbor. It was more like a jet- or a spaceport, where a few technicians loaded thousands of tons of cargo with automatic equipment. Then Ajão saw the reason for the seeming anachronism. Of course! The Azhiri workers could simply teleport cargo from their storehouses to the boats’ holds, and vice versa. Probably the only real hand work was in the maintenance of the boats and buildings.

  Again the whistle, and again they teleported. Ajão tried to keep track of each jump, but it was difficult. Not all lakes were set amidst fortifications and warehouses. Some were surrounded by deciduous forests whose fallen, three-pointed leaves turned the ground and the water’s edge to orange and red and chartreuse. Jump followed jump, and the landscapes beyond their boat flickered swiftly by. As the minutes passed the air became almost tropically warm. The rainstorm was far behind them now. Sunlight streamed down through blue sky between blocky chunks of cumulous cloud. To the north, the clouds merged into a dark gray line against the horizon.

  The jolt as they splashed into each new lake was always in the same direction and of much the same force: Ajão estimated that they were heading steadily southeastward. There was something else that didn’t change from jump to jump: a tiny, camouflaged boat always sat in the water a hundred meters away when they popped into a new lake, and always disappeared in a great gout of water just before their own boat jumped. Apparently they had an escort.

  Another jump … and the pressure in his ears was sudden, painful, and increasing. Ajão swallowed rapidly, found himself just barely able to compensate for the rapidly lessening air pressure. He opened his eyes, looked across the water. This lake was small, a nearly perfect circle. Broad-leafed tropical vegetation bordered a sandy beach. Mansions of pink-and-white marble were scattered through the greenery up the precipitous hillside.

  For the first time in several minutes, Leg-Wot spoke. “You really think the Azhiri teleport by thinking pure thoughts, Bjault? I’m not so sure. If it is a natural mental ability, then it seems to me that the trick should cost almost no energy to perform.”

  “Yes. That would be the simplest assumption, anyway.” He leaned forward, trying to see as much of the landscape as possible.

  “But this last jump took us up a good thousand meters. You felt your ears pop, didn’t you? This barge we’re on must mass better than a
hundred tons. Do you have any idea how much energy it would take to lift it a kilometer? Teleportation or not, that’s a job for heavy machinery, not a kilogram of quivering cerebrum.”

  “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.

  Five

  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.

  That was a neat touch. Without quite saying so, he had managed to imply that his father was behind his actions. The only danger was that the baron-general might have already reported the capture. But that was unlikely. Cousin Ngatheru had a reputation for independence—some might say treasonous arrogance. He did his job well, but he liked to do it all by himself. Chances were he had planned to keep his discovery secret until he had the whole affair wrapped up in a pretty package.

  Pelio wondered a
gain who had sent him the anonymous message describing what Ngatheru’s men had found in the hills north of Bodgaru. Obviously, someone was trying to manipulate him, just as he was trying to manipulate Ngatheru. But who? If Ionina and Adgao had not been so patently alien, he would have suspected the whole affair was an intricate trap, set perhaps by his brother and mother. Pelio shook his head and returned to the letter:

  As you know, Good Cousin, the circumstances of this incident are mysterious and ominous.

  We feel

  How wonderfully ambiguous the royal “we”! that this matter must be handled with complete secrecy and at the highest levels. Any spread of information concerning this capture would endanger All Summer.

  Threatening Ngatheru with high-treason charges should help keep his mouth shut.

  Pelio finished with “Abiding affection and highest regard,” and signed his name. Actually, now that he looked at it, this draft didn’t seem too bad. He folded and refolded the triangular vellum until it was a ball less than two inches across. Then he dipped it in a reservoir of blood-warm sap at the corner of his desk and impressed the royal seal upon the bluish resin.

  Samadhom slept near his feet, a golden hulk on the sun-warmed floor. The watchbear didn’t stir a hair as the prince crossed the room and pulled on the cord that emerged from a hole in the wall. Through the warm morning air came the clear sound of the bell set in the servants’ room down the hill. The ringer was something Pelio had invented himself, though he felt no pride for having done so: few people ever had use for such an invention. But without that bell and cord, he would needs be surrounded by his servants every minute.