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  It did the first but not the second.

  Perhaps the defenders were in subsurface installations. Kraloqt ordered a spray burst, each pulse more powerful than the single first shot. The resort site exploded, lofting a large cloud of smoke and dust, leaving a twenty-acre crater field.

  He then ordered in an elite infantry battalion, to scout the surrounding forest and flush out the enemy. The first assault lander had barely put down when a small spacecraft emerged unexpectedly at the surface, twenty miles east-northeast of the landing zone, accelerating outbound as strongly as its crew could tolerate. Another quickly followed, then a third, a fourth. By that time the first had generated warpspace on the run, and was essentially out of harm's way. The others followed suit.

  Kraloqt's battlecomp had peripheral attention better than any living organism's; it was never distracted. In the same moment that its alarm system squalled, his flagship fired a series of pulses at the location from which the alien craft had appeared. Kraloqt ordered a bombardment ship into action.

  To hunt fleeing craft in warpspace was impractical, and at any rate not Kraloqt's responsibility. His job was to destroy the planet's surface defenses and prepare it for occupation. He radioed a report to the grand admiral (it would take a dozen hours to reach him), then ordered another elite battalion to the site of the alien launch. In less than a minute, the battalion's armored assault landers were on their way, with gunships flying cover.

  ***

  When the resort's electronics reported bogies entering F-space only 90,000 miles out, the surprised Morgan had ordered all base personnel to board their assigned ships for evacuation. They were to be fully secured for flight within ten minutes, and depart on his command. His own yacht would leave after the others were clear.

  But again the invaders surprised him. While the transports and cargo ships entered F-space 90,000 miles out, the assault force had continued in warpspace, and emerged unexpectedly overhead at only 63,000 feet.

  Despite his surprise, the intruders' haste grabbed Morgan's curiosity, which at times could be stronger than his good judgement. Thus, though Connie and Robert were still in his apartment, he was reluctant to leave his office. The intruders might try to communicate via computer. It seemed probable.

  Before the ten minutes were up, communication with the resort was cut off. Two minutes later the shock wave of its destruction hit the subterranean pirate base, and Morgan's hopes crashed and burned. He knew at once there'd be no negotiation, or even an ultimatum, just destruction. A touch on his key pad showed he still had communication within the base. Biting the words out, he called Flight Control. "Drago, it's time to vamoose. Are all ships secured and ready?"

  "All but yours, boss."

  "Leave without me. Now! No delay! I'll follow when I can. Till then, you're in charge."

  "You're the boss, boss." Drago paused. Morgan could hear him talking laconically to someone else-Hideo Pienaar, Morgan's own first officer, who would serve as launch control till Morgan boarded the Delight with Robert and Connie.

  Then Drago was speaking through the base communication system. "Emergency evacuation! Emergency evacuation! Standard rendezvous! Standard rendezvous! All cradles except the commodore's yacht cradle will power up to launch. NOW!" There was a brief lapse, then Pienaar was speaking. "Launch one!" Pause. "Launch two!" Pause. "Launch three." Pause. "Launch four."

  Morgan felt the rock shudder much more severely than before, a series of heavy shock pulses hammering the plateau top directly overhead, and the upper face of the gorge. He hadn't imagined such a quick response. His hands clenched the arms of his chair. Objects fell from shelves. A vase waltzed briefly and toppled, spilling flowers and water across the surface of his desk, wetting his lap. He swore. Jabbing a key on his pad, he called, "Damage report!"

  "Boss, this is Hideo. Ships one through four got out. Then we took multiple hits, and a lot of rock came down. Both ports are blocked by rockfall. Doesn't seem to be any interior damage though."

  Thank God for any favors, Morgan thought. "How long will it take to clear the ports?"

  "An hour at least. Likely four or five. We need to get the dozer running."

  "Okay, do it."

  It was as if the invader had been listening. There was another, longer series of shocks, and Morgan's line with damage control cut off. Along with any prospect of getting the ports cleared at all, he told himself.

  Opening a desk drawer, he took out a remote control and shoved it into a pocket. He had no doubt intruder scouts would be along soon, checking the target area. We'll really be in the soup then, he told himself, unless the ports are so thoroughly blocked, the bastards don't notice them. We'll likely have their version of marines in the tunnels with us. Or worse, some explosive aerosol that would blow the base all to hell from the inside out.

  Defense was out of the question. Moving more quickly than he had for years, Morgan headed for his apartment, to find Connie standing round-eyed with worry, Robert beside her. Pointing at Morgan, Robert laughed. "You wet your pants!"

  Morgan looked down where the water from the vase had spilled on him. "Well, I'll be darned," he said. "Look at that." Then he stepped to the phone and keyed base security. That line was working. The speaker was on, and Connie and Robert listened.

  "Prieto," a voice answered.

  "Have we got visitors yet, Leon?"

  "They just landed. They will be knocking at our door in a few minutes. Our monitor eyes are all inop, but I have men peeking over the rubble blocking the work port." Prieto laughed. "Maglie says they are the centaurs from hell. Then he said no, they are centaurs from the Jurassic." Leon paused, then continued: "I think they will blast their way in."

  "Look, Leon," Morgan said, "if you think it's best, surrender to them. I'm giving you full authority. Meanwhile I need to get Robert out of their reach. One way or another."

  "Got it, boss."

  Morgan switched off. "Robert, Connie, let's go." They followed without questions. Nearby was a dead-end corridor. As they approached it, he took the remote from his pocket, and aiming it at what appeared to be solid rock; he touched the switch. Groaning, the rock slid aside about five feet, a steel panel with rock slab veneer. He gestured Connie and Robert through the gap ahead of him. "Hurry!" he said, and even Robert hurried. Then he pointed the remote again, and the gap closed.

  The tunnel on the other side was narrow, crudely finished, and unlit. It smelled moist and fusty, as if not serviced by the base's ventilation system. Morgan pressed a second switch, and the remote became a flashlight. Turning, he directed the beam down the tunnel. Blackness swallowed it a hundred feet ahead.

  "Morgan," Robert said, "I'm scared." His voice was a little boy's now, despite its tenor pitch.

  "It's okay to be scared, but you'll be all right. I'm your brother; I take care of you." Gently he rumpled Robert's close-cut hair. "We're going to a secret place. The bad guys don't know about it. No one does except us three."

  Then he led off along the tunnel.

  ***

  It went farther than Connie had expected. Half a mile at least, she decided, and except for the first hundred yards or so, it climbed. Not steeply, but enough that Robert got a bit querulous. "You'll make it, brother," Morgan told him. "You're doing great. Our father used to climb mountains, and we inherited his legs, you and I."

  "Really? What mountains?"

  "He used to climb Mount Snowden every chance he had. When I was little, back in Wales. A couple of times he even went to Scotland to climb; he climbed Ben Nevis there, and Ben Macdhui. Once, after we moved to Nebraska, he took Mother and me to Colorado, where there were even bigger mountains. He climbed one of them, too. I wanted to go with him, but I was too…"

  A faint tremor shivered the rock beneath their feet, interrupting Morgan's recitation. He didn't get back to it, simply walked faster.

  Connie's knowledge of Terran geography pretty much ended with what was taught in middle school, and in high school in connection with
history. It didn't go much beyond the more important places and historical events. Her mind couldn't create an image of Wales on the map, but she was pretty sure it was part of Great Britain. Scotland she could image. On the map it looked like the profile of a dowager, with a feathered hat from some far-back time-the 20th or 21st century. Before "the Troubles." As for Colorado-she'd heard of it. It was in North America.

  She wondered if Henry was telling Robert the truth. She'd never known him to kid his brother, but over the years she'd learned he could lie when it suited him.

  After what might have been twenty minutes, the flashlight picked up a steel door ahead, with what looked like a wheel on it. Like much else in the base, it was from a waylaid ship-the security vault door of a luxury cruise ship. It wasn't locked; Henry simply spun the wheel and pulled, then ushered them in and closed it after them.

  He didn't take time to show them around. Leaving them in the dark, he disappeared through another door. Half a minute later she could hear humming from wherever the machinery resided that provided the utilities-a small geogravitic power converter, water pump, sump pump, air circulation… Lights turned on. Seconds later she heard water running.

  After Henry returned, the rock shuddered again, this time more strongly than in the tunnel, though nothing like they'd felt in the apartment. He went back into the machinery room, and while he was gone, the shudder repeated strongly enough to worry her.

  They made love that night for the first time in a week. Afterward, over brandy-short drinks; they needed to be frugal with it-Henry told her more about what had happened. Including the tremor in the tunnel, and those they'd felt since then. The first, he believed, was the intruders blasting their way into the base. The second was the use of concussion to kill everyone inside. "And the third-" He exhaled gustily through pursed lips. "If the alien charges didn't collapse the base, I wouldn't want them to find this place. And years ago I had charges set to bring down the corridor leading here."

  He reached, and patted her hand. "There's a way out though, and enough food to keep the three of us for a couple of years if need be. Meanwhile I'll be doing things, finding things out, and you and Robert can help me communicate what I learn to Terra." Though what it might be, he told himself, or what good it might do them, God only knows. Sixteen thousand, for godssake!

  Chapter 3

  Chang Lung-Chi and

  Foster Peixoto

  President Chang Lung-Chi's chauffeur had let him off three hundred yards from the palace. Three hundred esthetic yards, pregnant with history. A long, initially turbulent history. After the Troubles, the Commonwealth of Worlds had undertaken to recognize and honor its diverse roots. And for Chang, walking through Peace Garden was to celebrate those roots. He strode briskly between vivid red and white flowerbeds, past the tall, crystalline Fountain of the Heroes, then across Unity Square, to mount the broad, low marble stairs of the Palace of Worlds. There he entered through the Portal of Admiral Gavril Apraxin.

  The president was a man of less-than-ordinary height; without exception his bodyguards were taller. They didn't march, didn't even keep to any particular configuration. They could almost have been walking together by chance. And if you watched them, not knowing who they were, it would be Chang Lung-Chi your eyes would follow. His somewhat portly sixty-year-old form was straight-backed, and he had presence.

  The vast lobby was busy, though the senate and assembly would not be called to order for two more hours. Staff members bustled on errands. Bureaucrats and members of parliament sauntered in conversation. Families and other early sightseers circulated, examining displays and memorials, or gazing at the shafts of colored light from reflectors overhead.

  Security was inconspicuous but excellent. Concealed surveillance cameras recorded everything. They were not sapient, of course, but they were programmed to notice-and correlate-face and form, bearing and demeanor, clues subtle as well as overt. And to inform as appropriate.

  The president passed the broad corridor that led to both senate and assembly, proceeding instead to a secure express tube to the next-to-top floor, where his offices and apartment were. When he stepped out into the eighty-sixth floor's east elevator bay, the prime minister was waiting for him; the surveillance system had more than just security functions.

  "Mr. President!" the prime minister said. "Something has come up which urgently requires our joint attention."

  Chang Lung-Chi raised his eyebrows. "Well then," he said, without asking what. It seemed to him he could guess.

  Foster Peixoto had already turned, starting down the corridor to his own wing, which was larger than the president's. It was not a matter of rank or prestige. The prime minister was head of government, which in the Commonwealth meant its director of planning and operations. He required a larger staff. The president was head of state: its spokesman, setter of directions and goals, co-setter of policies and priorities.

  Physically they were not at all alike. Peixoto had lived the first fourteen years of his life on Luna. Not surprisingly he was nearly seven feet tall, though weighing less than the president. And their differences went beyond body type, yet they'd been friends at first meeting, and close friends almost as quickly. They even complemented one another. Peixoto was an analytical thinker who dealt well with details. The president was intuitive. His mind cut quickly to the core of a problem.

  Peixoto's office was spare, and strictly utilitarian. The few art pieces had been supplied by the General Services Administration. Folding his long body onto his desk chair, he rested his hand by his key pad. The president, a frequent visitor, seated himself.

  "The alien armada has attacked another world," Peixoto said. "This time the Gem of the Prophet. My communicator learned of it only minutes ago. You'd already left the airport, so I decided to wait." He tapped a short sequence of keys. A picture lit a wall screen, of a youth, a savant lying in trance. President Chang knew the young man, whose talents went far beyond his musical virtuosity. He lay in a penthouse apartment overhead, but his words originated on a world so distant, its sun was not visible to the naked eye.

  The savant spoke in Terran, in the first person. After identifying the system, he began the message. "Two hours ago," he said, "bombardment craft, parked out of sight overhead, began to destroy our towns. They ignored our attempts to communicate. Now not a town remains standing. After you forwarded the report of Morgan the pirate, this unit was ordered to the Mountain of the Poet, where the invaders have not yet found us."

  So, Peixoto thought, the aliens, the intrusion, are real. This leaves no doubt.

  The words continued. "They have landed ground forces at numerous locations. Video signals show their soldiers as having six limbs, and like the mythical centaur, they walk on four of them. The other two, the arms, are on an upright torso that rises from the withers. The head looks reptilian, despite fur and external ears, and the tail is like that of an ass. They wear no clothing, only a harness to which their gear is attached. They run briskly, and even ignoring the upright torso, their body appears larger than the largest dog.

  "They attack fiercely, and have rejected, or failed to understand, offers of surrender. They simply kill, the unarmed as well as the armed."

  There was a long pause. "They have detected us. Our…" Briefly the savant shifted on the couch, then lay quiet. His attendant moved into camera view. "Ramesh has lost contact," he said. "We will continue to record further communication, if there is any."

  Peixoto touched a key and the screen went blank. Chang's head had bowed as they'd listened. Now it raised. "Faith has gotten itself tangled in the thorn hedge again," he said. The Faith Party was small but sometimes pivotal. When the report from Tagus had been released, Faith had been vocally upset with it. Their pacifism had been threatened, and they'd denied vehemently that there was such an armada. It was impossible, a pirate ruse.

  They'd have a hard time calling this report a pirate ruse. And Faith depended on the perception that their positions and statements came to
them from the deity. "Faith will lose more than face," Chang went on. "To the eight hundred million Muslims on Terra, traditional and reformed, the Gem of the Prophet has been the crown jewel of their colonies. Now Salam will disassociate itself from Faith." His gaze sought Peixoto's. "This will help you get a war powers act through."

  Peixoto nodded absently; a thought had taken his attention. "We must somehow establish communication with these… centaurs. Negotiate with them."

  The comment took the president by surprise. "Of course," he said. "But meanwhile we'll promote a war powers proposal to parliament. Rearming will require immense focus, unswerving determination-and discipline." Chang paused, peering carefully at his friend. "Do you actually suppose these creatures might negotiate?"

  Peixoto shook his head reluctantly. "I hope, but I do not expect. We must try."

  The president nodded. "I agree, my friend, we must try." He frowned, then gestured at the wall screen. "Call up a space chart. Centered on the azimuth of Gem."

  Peixoto's forehead furrowed, and he tapped keys. A three-dimensional star chart appeared on the screen, with a thin green line that extended from Terra through the Gem of the Prophet. "Now show me where Tagus is," the president said.

  Peixoto's lips framed a silent "oh" of realization, and he tapped keys again. The primary of the Tagus System showed a pulsing red. It was not far off the azimuth that ran through Gem.

  "Now show the Gem-Tagus bearing, enlarged."

  Peixoto's fingers busied. The image jumped, showing a line from Tagus to Gem. Several labeled systems lay near it; one had a colony. A touch of the arrow gave its name: the Star of Hibernia.

  "Does our embassy there have a communicator office?"

  All colonial embassies were authorized one, but there were more embassies than there were suitable savants. Once more Peixoto's fingers tapped, and names appeared. "Yes," he said.