When the two communicators on Terra had responded, Robert Teach spoke again. "They are ready," he said. Then his elder brother began to dictate, identifying himself by both his legal name and pseudonym, Robert passing them on precisely, mentally. Instantaneously. Without a qualm, Morgan gave his galactic coordinates, then described what his emergence wave detector had shown. Those same emergence waves had reached Terra at the same instant, of course, but at that distance-hundreds of parsecs-they'd been far too slight to register.

It would be an historic event: the first planetary capture by the Seventh Wyzhnyny Swarm. The flagship's bridge was bright with officers of the exalted genders, their fur blue, except for the ridge of cardinal that began at the withers, and in the master gender culminated in a cranial crest. Amongst the tan or reddish-brown of the crew and subordinate officers, they were vividly dominant.

Their flagship was equipped with the best sensory system the empire could provide. Within minutes, the grand admiral knew the location and approximate orbits of all the system's planets, and their first-order environmental parameters-mass, solar constant, magnetic field, surface temperature, approximate atmospheric composition… Also the presence of technical electronics-that had been recorded almost at once-and the curious absence of any apparent pod beacon.

With those data established, Grand Admiral Quanshuk shu-Gorlak had ordered the fleet of one preselected tribe-transports, cargo ships, armed escorts-to head insystem. While inbound, all colonists were to be revived; all but the matrons were soldiers. The bombardment ships and ground-assault craft would emerge from warpspace close to the inhabited planet, move in, and wipe out all military installations and population concentrations. That accomplished, ground forces would seek and destroy all remaining native sophonts. With mop-up under way, they would commence base construction.

Nothing was said about prisoners. The only prisoners the Wyzhnyny ever took were for interrogation, and only as ordered by their high command. Without such an order, all alien sophonts would be killed. Of course.

The tribal fleet, or most of it, emerged from warpspace and approached quickly in gravdrive. Its scouts quickly found the sole source of technical electronics-the "resort." Eight miles out, Support Force Commander Kraloqt stood on the bridge of his flagship, frowning. Was this all? The place didn't appear dangerous. He ordered a single pulse fired, adequate to obliterate the central building, hopefully drawing fire from any defense forces.

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.