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  His scholastic performance proved exemplary, and the colonel was soon satisfied that the young man's potential was as good as he'd hoped. Kaytennae then approached a wealthy manufacturer he'd cultivated, and got him to finance several scholarships. From the ranks of games enthusiasts, he'd already recruited several youths to fill those scholarships. Because Eric Padilla would need skilled collaborators and assistants.

  At age thirty-seven, Doctor Eric Padilla personally and successfully removed the living central nervous system-the CNS-of one Carlos O'Brien. O'Brien was a thirty-year-old ex-construction worker who'd lost both arms and his eyesight in an explosion. Removed and transferred his CNS live, into a bioelectronic interface unit (BEIU, or "bottle") where it underwent hormonal detraumatization. Then he successfully installed the "activated" bottle into a newly designed prototype infantry combat servo. When fitted with the activated bottle, the servo provided a ruggedly formidable, prototype fighting machine.

  This epochal operation was carried out with great care for secrecy. For the human rights movement had gone full circle, and begun to eat its own tail: to protect human rights, it undertook to deny them.

  Normally Padilla was calm, unflappable, but he found the operation nerve-wracking. Not because of any possible leak and criminal prosecution; he gave that scenario almost no attention. But because neither he nor anyone else had ever performed such an operation on a live human being, and no one knew with certainty what the result would be. Of necessity, the servo's inputs to the overall sensorium were extremely complex, and though analogous, were quite unlike any a human CNS had experienced before. And especially troublesome, the procedure was not reversible. The human core of the cyborg could not be put back in its original body.

  To function effectively for an extended period, the CNS requires an integrated set of inputs from its new body. Inputs producing a broad spectrum of information and responses that include, among other things, esthetics, orientation, discomfort, even a modified sense of pain. In fact, pretty much the same spectrum provided by human bodies. Padilla and his collaborators had spent a great deal of time and care in designing, testing, and fine-tuning the servo's quasi-organic nervous system, along with the manifold neural connections of the bioelectronic interface.

  But the tests had used devices, not the human brain. There was no way Padilla could know, really know, how Carlos O'Brien would find life as a cyborg.

  That had been 157 years before the capture of Tagus Cove. Carlos O'Brien had wakened to life as a cyborg and found it mainly interesting, not traumatic. Certainly it was far better than his brief experience without arms or vision. Also it gave him a job-helping test the prototype. And the series of prototypes that followed, for if O'Brien could never wear a human body again, the bottle that held his CNS could be removed and installed in other servos. The more sensitive procedure had been installing the CNS into the bioelectronic interface unit, attaching pseudo-organic neuroconnectors to biological nerves.

  Then someone blew the whistle. The Respect Movement was outraged, and bottling was made illegal. And of course, careers were ruined, among them Eric Padilla's.

  Eventually the Wyzhnyny arrived in the fringe of Commonwealth space, Henry Morgan's savanted message reached Kunming, and the news galvanized the Commonwealth. (Changing it forever, though just then no one gave "forever" much attention.) At that time, five manned servos existed, all secret. Five actual manned servos, but many virtual, generated in the computers that drove the Commonwealth military's virtual reality trainers.

  Five manned servos, none of them military. That would quickly change. The Office of Industrial Mobilization would see to it.

  Chapter 6

  Maritimus

  David MacDonald sat at the sun-deck table, wearing shorts and Sunsafe, and reading a task report from Submersible 4. From their office, his wife's voice interrupted, loud and agitated. "David!"

  Afterward it seemed to him he should have known, given the reports from Morgan the Pirate and Gem of the Prophet. But his immediate thought was that she'd cut herself, badly. In an instant he was on his feet and through the door. "What is it?"

  "It's happened." Her agitation was gone now, leaving anger and chagrin. She pointed at the wall screen. "The hyperspace emergence detector just kicked in. There are 16,212 blips on the screen."

  He turned and stared. A vast display of icons-mostly of large ships-was spread across a perspective representation of the Maritimus System.* A footer gave the number. Briefly he stared. "Good God," he muttered, then shook his head. "At least we're prepared for them." Most personnel, and all children but one, had been evacuated to Terra. Those who'd stayed had a very simple plan: If invaders arrive, get the hell out of F-space.

  He turned to his wife. Yukiko Alegria Gavaldon-all five feet three inches and 115 muscular pounds of her-stood with hands on hips, face grim. They had eight years of work and dreams invested in Maritimus. His fingers tapped instructions on a key pad, and a klaxon began to blare over the master comm system, both on Home Base and at work locations-a sound that could waken the dead. He gave it ten seconds before switching it off and speaking into the microphone: "All personnel, this is Mac. All personnel, this is Mac. This is not a drill; repeat, not a drill. We've got sixteen thousand bogies in the fringe. That's sixteen thousand bogies. Carry out Plan 1-A promptly. Carry out Plan 1-A promptly." He gave them another five-second shot of the klaxon, then repeated his announcement, followed by a roll call.

  The fourteen humans who'd remained on Maritimus had told themselves the invaders might miss the system. But they'd retained the hyperspace vessel Cousteau, moving it to a cave that opened onto the sea, forty-one miles up the coast from Home Base. They'd also restricted their studies to a travel radius of two hours from Cave Bay, and kept their radios on at all times. Thus almost everyone responded as he read off their names. The two who didn't were accounted for. There were no questions.

  His last order was to Dennis Bertrand: to message Terra of the invaders' arrival. The project's communication savant and her attendant lived aboard the Cousteau.

  With roll call completed, Yukiko went to the spacious bedroom she shared with her husband. They kept partly packed bags in the closet; filling them would take only a few minutes. David stepped back onto the sun deck to grab his reader from the table, then went to help her.

  First they finished packing. Then, Yukiko ran a computer check on the status of the computer-destruct systems at the various locations. The Emergency War Directorate on Terra didn't want the invaders laying hands on a Commonwealth database. Not that it was likely, if the invaders' penchant for indiscriminate destruction was as bad as reported. The checkout was a stepwise procedure, requiring that she confirm each step. She considered the human confirmation needless, but did it as prescribed.

  When she'd finished, David rechecked all manned locations. Everyone was to meet at Cave Base, aboard the Cousteau. The Talacogons had already left North Bay, and the Mellstads had left Cleaver Station. Ngozi and Hogan were about to leave Atoll Station. At Home Base, Marcel Kwong was loading his scooter just two hundred yards up the inlet from the MacDonalds. His wife Jeanne had just arrived in a jet boat, from an aborted run to service plankton traps. They'd leave within ten minutes.

  With that information in hand, David activated the remote timer program for the destruction of all but the base at Cave Bay. If they lucked out and the invaders bypassed them, he could cancel it. Fat chance, he told himself. Aloud he said, "That is the hardest thing I've ever had to do."

  Yukiko nodded. "Let's hope they leave without moving insystem. Given the descriptions from Gem, they're not remotely an aquatic life-form. And if it's living space they're looking for, they won't find much here."

  An exercise in false hope, she chided herself. Without a fly-by, the intruders wouldn't know that Maritimus was an ocean world without a single real continent. And if they came close enough for a flyby… Even parked a few billion miles out, they'd have picked up the base's electronics signatu
re as soon as they emerged from hyperspace. They'd know there was technology here. And judging from Tagus and Gem, they'd come in with death and destruction on their minds.

  "I'm going down and let the dolphs know," she said. "We can't leave without telling them."

  "Go ahead," David answered, then turned and left the room. The house was cantilevered over the inlet, some fifty feet above the Tufftile dock where Submersible 1 lay secured. The rear of the house, however, opened on the cliff top, where a three-walled shelter of deep-jade Tuffglass housed their travel scooter. He took their bags to it in two trips, loading them in the already half-filled luggage compartment.

  On the first luggage trip, he saw the Kwongs' scooter start off across the inlet. Now everyone except himself and Yukiko were at or on their way to Cave Bay. After the second load, he returned to the deck and looked down through a Tuffglass panel at Submersible 1. Its hatch was open: Yukiko was still talking to the dolphs via the speaker. While waiting, he found himself fidgeting, and wondered why. It would take hours for invader ships to arrive by warpdrive. Finally Yukiko emerged, shut the hatch behind her, and started for the stairs. David went back to the scooter and activated the AG.

  Two minutes later, she came out carrying a padded beverage basket. "Brandy," she said, holding it up. "In case we have something to celebrate, or for nightcaps if we don't." She put it in the luggage carrier, then climbed into the cab. Their weight, when they sat down, activated the restraint fields in their seats. David's fingers tapped a brief instruction, then at his practiced touch on the joystick, the scooter rose slightly, moving out of the shelter.

  When they were clear, he accelerated, the scooter curving smoothly out over the inlet. Yukiko looked down past her feet at dark water. So much to learn here, she told herself, and so much potential. She wondered if they'd ever come back. It seemed to her she should have been incarnated a dolphin. Maybe next life.

  So far they'd found no evidence that Maritimus had any sapient native life-form: terrestrial, aquatic, or avian. But they'd released thirty dolphins to assist in a survey of native marine life, and Yukiko was-or had been-in charge. Now she felt as if she were running out on them. But the dolphs were smart and resourceful, and they knew the situation.

  The scooter had crossed the inlet, and they were low over Dolerite Point, when Yukiko became aware of the cold. She frowned. "David… " she began.

  "I feel it," he answered, and tapped brief instructions to the scooter, his eyes on the resulting heads-up display. "It's the AG cooling system," he said. It was almost the only thing that went wrong with scooters.

  "Can we make it to Cave Bay?"

  "We'd better." He veered the scooter out over the ocean's edge. If the drive shut down, they wouldn't be able to stay aloft for long; they'd coast down on whatever azimuth they'd been flying, modified by the wind. With considerable momentum and no control at all. And if they were over the rugged coast when they hit, they'd likely be killed.

  Yukiko switched her microphone on. "This is Yukiko," she said. "Dennis, we're on our way, but we're having AG trouble. We're on our way, but having AG trouble. Do you read me? Over."

  Dennis Bertrand was their licensed hyperspace navigator, stationed at Cave Bay. His wife, Ju-Li, was the attendant of the project's savant, who was also her baby sister. "This is Bertrand," he said. "I read you, Yukiko, loud and clear. Marcel is about a dozen miles south of here. I'll have him turn back and follow you in, just in case. Over."

  "Thank you, Dennis. Yukiko out."

  David set a course that would keep them near the shore without taking them over land till they crossed Cedar Point. After Cedar Point they'd have a straight shot over water to the Cousteau in its cave. If we get that far, he thought. The cab was getting really chilly.

  He'd barely thought it before the drive choked, nearly died, cutting back in just long enough that he initiated a turn shoreward. Then it cut out entirely, leaving the turn incomplete. Bracing himself, David opened the door on his side. He wanted to keep it open just a little, like an off-center drag chute, to complete his shoreward turn by air resistance. Which was stronger than he'd anticipated. He hadn't tightened his restraint field, and the door jerked him half out of the scooter. For a moment his joints turned to water. His mind knew that the restraint field, even lax as he'd left it, would keep him from being pulled out, but his body didn't believe it. Then the handle ripped free of his clutch, and the door banged back against the scooter's side. But not before nudging the craft almost directly toward the rocky shore. Heart still hammering, he tightened his restraint field.

  They were losing elevation more rapidly now. Marcel wouldn't get to them till well after they were in the drink, and with the decay of the scooter's residual AG, they wouldn't stay afloat long. Punching the fat mayday switch in front of him, David let anyone within range know they were about to crash. Some distance ahead, surf raised on a rocky shelf, to slam against massive basalt blocks fallen from the cliffs behind it. Ahead to their right, a low rocky islet stood just above the sea.

  "Yukiko," David said, "open your door. And hang onto it as hard as you can!"

  She realized what he had in mind, and didn't hesitate. She cracked the door, and instantly the air jerked it wide. Her seat restraint field held her securely if resiliently. The door jerked her shoulder muscles painfully before tearing from her grasp. Now they were headed almost toward the islet, though well short of it. "David," she said, "the seat cushions… "

  She didn't finish; he already knew. Holding their breath, they stared at the onrushing water. David shut his eyes, felt the scooter hit, skip, hit again, skip again, and again, each skip shorter than the one before. One final time it struck, nosing into a swell, jarring hard, then stopped. Their restraint fields had eased the shock while pressing the breath out of them.

  David's eyes had popped open, and he pushed his restraint release, then looked at Yukiko. She was already free of hers. Water was spilling in over their feet. A touch on the control panel slid the cab's tinted hood back. A swell lifted them. David rose from his seat, snatched up its cushion and thrust his arms into the straps. "Go!" he shouted, and jumped.

  In the water, another swell raised them. Beside him and slightly ahead, the scooter lifted again, less buoyant now. His eyes found Yukiko perhaps fifteen feet away and slightly to his rear as the swell left them behind. When the next swell lifted them, they saw waves breaking on the point of the small islet, ahead and a little to their right. The scooter would be carried past it, toward the surf crashing on the rocks some three hundred yards ahead.

  "Swim for the island!" he shouted. "Don't let yourself be carried past it." Then he began kicking his feet, swimming toward it himself. Marcel will find us, he thought. And if he doesn't, the surf may be less dangerous when the tide recedes. Not that the tides amounted to much.

  Marcel Kwong had received the mayday signal, but gotten only an azimuth, not a location. Not knowing of Yukiko's delay to message the dolphins, he assumed the two were somewhere north of Cedar Point. When he reached the point without spotting them, he turned back, flying higher to see more area.

  After flying halfway back to where he'd received the mayday, Marcel consulted briefly again with Bertrand, then turned south once more, seriously anxious. The sun was low, cut off by the cliffs now. This time he crossed Cedar Point instead of stopping. Seventeen miles from Home Base, his wife spotted the twisted, surf-battered scooter on the rocks, each successive breaker compounding the destruction. Angling lower, they approached it at an altitude of twenty feet. Not surprisingly its cab was empty, its hood torn half off. He made two sweeps above the shelf, watching for bodies, and found none. That didn't surprise them either. There'd be an undertow here, and a south-flowing current offshore.

  He switched on his microphone. "Dennis," he called, "this is Marcel. Dennis, this is Marcel. We've found the wreckage of a scooter on the shelf rock nine miles south of Cedar Point. But no bodies or survivors. We need help in finding either bodies or survivors. Ove
r."

  "Marcel, this is Bertrand. Elisio and Nona just arrived from North Bay, and Ngozi is on her way from the atoll. How badly was the scooter damaged? Over."

  "It was utterly demolished, and I can't picture a human surviving the breakers here. There's shelf rock and lots of boulders. Over."

  "All right, follow the offshore current south. They could be riding it on their seat cushions, watching for a gap. My chart shows a good-sized stream coming down off the plateau about four miles south of the wreck. There'll be a break in the boulder line there, and the outflow current should make the surf less dangerous. Over."

  "Got it. We'll follow the offshore current south. Marcel out." He angled southward at about fifty feet above the waves.

  He glanced at the time display: 1714 base time. It seemed to him they needed to find David and Yukiko today. Tomorrow would be too late.

  Chapter 7

  Reconnaissance

  For a pirate, Henry Morgan was amiable. Almost always.

  Seven years before the Wyzhnyny arrived, his Squadron One had captured the hyperspace yacht Guinevere, whose owner/master was identified in the yacht's records as Gomer Colwyn-though Morgan at first didn't know that. Trapped in F-space and under the pirate's beamgun, Colwyn had asked for quarter, and Morgan, as always, granted the plea. In the case of merchantmen, his practice was to disarm the ship, then loot it before giving it back. But the Guinevere was well suited for use as a corsair. So when she hove to, Morgan decided to load her personnel and passengers aboard a lifeboat and send them off, then put a prize crew aboard the yacht to fly it to Tagus.

  The yacht's master had other ideas. After accepting the pirate's clemency, Gomer Colwyn had drawn a blaster from inside his blouse. With shocking quickness and force, Morgan disarmed and disabled the man. Colwyn cursed him then-surely those were curses-in a language unfamiliar to the crew.