“It is not that complicated,” he says gently.
With a sigh, I say, “Fine. What’s a fold-point?”
“Space is big. A direct path from here to Vhorath is approximately 26 light-years in distance.” He frowns and types on the control panel again before looking back at me. “Or 21.06 light-years by Earth’s measurement.”
I hold up a hand. “I thought light always moves at the same speed.”
“It is not the light that is changing; it is the measurement of a year. A light-year is just how far light can travel in a single year. One Vhorathi year is equivalent to 0.81 Earth years. Our unit of measurement is different.”
Huh, that actually makes sense. With a nod, I say, “Go on.”
“The distance is too vast to travel or send messages in a straight path, so we use … I do not know the term.” He types again and his brows dip. “Wormhole? Is that really the correct term?”
“A wormhole? Isn’t that just a half-assed plot device for writers who don’t have the imagination to come up with something better?”
He shakes his head, clearly confused by my comment. “It is a fold in space-time. Instead of traveling along the normal planeof space-time, we fold the plane and jump through it. It is much faster.”
“Now we’re talking about space origami?” I murmur, rubbing my temples. “Ok. So you fold space, or whatever.”
“Yes,” he says, looking slightly amused by my distress.
“Don’t you dare laugh.”
His grin grows and he laughs, which makes me laugh despite the effort I’m exerting to hold a straight face.
When he catches his breath, he says, “Ok. Imagine my hands are the universe.” He holds his hands out, palms up, with his pinkies pressed together. “You need to travel from the pointer finger on my left hand to the pointer finger on my right. Now, if you travel straight across, the distance is long. You have to cross six fingers. But, if you fold space,” he brings both of his palms together so his pointer fingers are touching, “the distance is much less.” He taps his pointer fingers together. “You can go from one distant point to another very quickly. This is how we travel and send messages over long distances.” I nod, and he continues. “A message sent from Vhorath to a ship in interstellar space must go through a clerk that sends the message to the correct wormhole.” He pauses. “Can we not call them wormholes? That term is very … strange.”
I shrug. “I didn’t come up with it. Call it whatever you want.”
“Good. The originating clerk sends the message to the correct ‘fold-point’ where the message is received by the jump-clerk there. A jump-clerk is just a controller that manages traffic through the fold-point. The jump-clerk then sends the message through the fold, aimed at the next fold-point, and so on until the message reaches its intended recipient.”
My brain is already starting to hurt, but I think I get the general idea. “So it’s just passed along a chain of computers?” He nods, and I ask, “How long does that take?”
“It depends on where the sender and receiver are. Ourfold-points are static locations—they are always in the same place—and some planets have fold-points connecting them directly, like Vhorath and Calidus.”
“Which is why we could talk to Marius without a time-lag,” I say quietly.
“Correct. If there is no fold-point connecting locations, messages take longer. Much longer.”
Interesting. “Do the clerks have access to the messages’ content?”
“Yes,” he says slowly. I can already see the wheels turning in his head, and that urges me forward.
“And who has access to the clerks?”
“The Vhorathi government.”
I wince. “Could they read the message we got?”
He scratches the scruff on his chin. “Maybe not. Not if whoever sent it didn’t want them to. It takes considerable skill to force a message through a security filter, and I would assume someone capable of that could circumvent the clerks’ review process.” A deep line appears between his brows, and I feel his thoughts moving chaotically. Then, his face lights up and he starts typing.
I pull my feet off the control panel and sit up. “What? What is it?”
“You are brilliant,” he mumbles, still typing. A few seconds later, the flashing orange icon is replaced by an image, and Vexar lets out a husky laugh as he drops into his seat.
“I’m sorry, is that a bean?” I ask, tilting my head to get a better look at the image. “And why are you laughing?”
He laughs again. It’s a relieved, incredulous sound. “It is avalakturheart.”
