The Witling

Eighteen

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.

One thousand meters altitude. “Bre’en. Give us another boost.”

The Snowman opened his eyes, and looked dazedly out the hatch. For a moment Yoninne thought he was going to scream. Then he realized that their descent was relatively slow, and concentrated on the task Leg-Wot had set. Pulsing explosions of hypervelocity air sounded again above them. The chute pitched over to the west as the air rammed into it. Yoninne estimated that they were being dragged along at better than sixty meters per second—and as long as she kept the chute properly trimmed, much of that velocity was directed upward.

A minute passed and Leg-Wot motioned to the Snowman, who immediately stopped work. Relative quiet returned to the cabin. Four thousand meters, the altimeter said. Not bad; even with all the ballast we’re in good shape. The dead oasis was lost in the morning glare. For the moment, all their problems lay within the skiff itself.

She trimmed the chute for maximum westward glide, and looked at the others. Bre’en was sunk down in his acceleration webbing, his eyes closed, apparently semiconscious. Crammed into the left side of the skiff, Pelio and Ajão looked uncomfortable but alert. As for Samadhom: the watchbear rested limplv across her friends’ laps, his massive head drooping over Pelio’s knee. Every few seconds he swayed his head to the side, and a faint meep sounded from his hidden mouth. Poor fellow. If he had been human, she would have said he was sinking into delirium.

If Sam lost consciousness, then the tables would finally be turned—and Bre’en could kill them all. Then all the Snowman had to do was teleport the skiff back to the oasis, and he’d be home free. No, that wasn’t quite right. They were several thousand meters up now—with all the potential energy that altitude gave them: unless Bre’en could find a rengable exchange mass, he would die of heatstroke teleporting down that far. But that was not an insuperable objection: if they were dead Bre’en could just wait until the parachute lowered the skiff to a safe altitude—and then “jump.”

But did Bre’en know that? Did he really understand the chute’s function? Perhaps she could convince him that without her cooperation, the skiff would fall like a rock. Her hand slid back to grasp the spill lanyard that hung close by the side of her webbing, hidden from Bre’en’s view.

Seconds later, Bre’en groaned and sat a little straighter. Yoninne glanced quickly at the man, then pretended to concentrate on the trim stick in her left hand. “I want to show you something, Bre’en. You’re not the only person needed to keep us in the air.” She waited till she had his full attention, then released the stick from her left hand. At the same time, she surreptitiously yanked the spill lanyard with her right; in the olive dome above them, dozens of tiny vents slid open. The skiff’s gentle descent became a swift free fall toward the desert below.

Pelio’s eyes went wide. Bre’en gave a short barking yell, before trying madly to slow their fall. The Snowman teleported blast after blast at the chute, but it was close-reefed now and their fall continued. Yoninne waited, resisting the terrible urge to act, until the instant Bre’en seemed to realize that all his efforts were in vain. Then she made a great show of grabbing the stick, and pulling it quickly this way and that. Simultaneously, she reset the lanyard with her right hand, and prayed the chute would dereef.

It did, and their fall ended in a protracted thunng sound as the shrouds stretched taut and the skiff resumed its eight-meter-per-second sink rate. Yoninne glanced at the skiff’s simple instrument board. They had lost only two-hundred-meters’ altitude; more surprising still, the whole game had lasted only seven seconds. She trimmed the chute back onto their original glide path, then fiddled impressively with the controls a few seconds more. Keeping her hand on the trim stick, she turned to Bre’en. “See what I mean?”

Thredegar Bre’en nodded dumbly. She noticed that Ajão’s face was blank, an expression that Leg-Wot recognized as carefully concealed amusement.

They flew in silence for several minutes. Now the desert looked like tawny cement, littered with pebbles, splattered here and there with motor oil.

Gradually the land seemed to ripple. Long shadows stood the foothills up like great ridges. She leaned out past the hatch, into the wind: the mountains ahead rose a good thousand meters above them, the rounded summits speckled with trees, pepper on sand.

She had Bre’en give the craft another boost, and minutes later still another. Each time they drew swiftly closer to the mountains but each time they rose hundreds of meters. Yoninne swallowed again and again to ease the pressure in her ears.

They passed over the line of peaks, missing the nearest by less than five hundred meters. In the branches of the trees there, she saw tiny spots of color that must be flowers. But spectacular as it was, the land below them couldn’t compare to what she saw over the mountains. The sea! A dark blue line along the western horizon. And the land between the mountains and the coast was green—not brown or ocher like the deserts behind them. The beautiful green band stretched as far to the north as she could see. So this was County Tsarang.

It was all downhill now; Bre’en had a much easier time of it. Yoninne estimated they could make it all the way to the coast if necessary. “Do you recognize any of this, Pelio?” she asked.

Pelio started to lean across Bre’en to look out the hatch. There were small observation windows slotted into the hull near him, but the open hatch provided a much better view. Samadhom shifted heavily across his lap and rolled limply against the wall. Pelio turned to cradle Sam’s head in his arms. He looked back at Yoninne, and his voice quavered faintly. “Samadhom’s still alive, I’m sure of it—”

But he’s unconscious, thought Leg-Wot. Bre’en’s attention flickered quickly from Yoninne to the watchbear and then back. Thank God Bre’en thinks the skiff will fall without our help.

Pelio reluctantly eased Sam onto the piled ballast, then returned to the hatch. He looked northward, then—gripping the edge of the hatch with both hands—leaned into the wind to look straight ahead. “We’ve done it, Ionina,” he said softly. “The center of Tsarangalang city is just to the right of our path. It can’t be more than a few miles away.”

They grinned foolishly at each other for a moment. Then Pelio turned back to Samadhom.

Yoninne tipped the canopy slightly and the skiff angled off in the direction Pelio had indicated. They weren’t more than two thousand meters up. The country below was wild by Homeworld standards, but Yoninne could see that it must be an Azhiri orchard. The greenery was speckled with red, and here and there she saw large stacks of the fruit waiting for transportation. An occasional building peeked through the foliage.

On the other side of the cabin, Pelio talked softly to Sam. Until the watchbear could be revived, the only thing that kept Bre’en from kenging them all was his fear of a crash. But that fear would diminish as the skiff sank nearer to earth.

Finally they were passing over the central districts of Tsarangalang: the buildings below were separated by scant hundreds of meters. Straight ahead lay the circular blue disk of the city’s transit lake. That’s where they’d have to touch down. With all the tons of ballast aboard, they were coming down so fast that Pelio and Ajão—unprotected by deceleration webbing—could get messed up if she landed on solid ground.

She arced wide around the lake trying to conserve every meter of altitude, trying to give Pelio and Samadhom more time. If necessary, she could force Bre’en to give the skiff still another boost. But what if Pelio couldn’t bring Sam to? What if Sam were dying? She tried not to think about that possibility; they were so terribly close to success now.

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.