The middle of Narragansett Bay. 4AM.

The pirates assigned to the crew’s all-terrain sloop, “License to Keelhaul,” watch lustily as a burning, air streamed meteorite plows into the water at several hundred McMiles per hour. With the captain and first mate predisposed back on campus piloting the vessel falls to the chaplain, a zealous brigand by the name of John Kanakanaka. He takes the ship up above the water as the shock waves rush towards them, and guns it towards the portion of the jet’s fuselage sticking up above the water. Meanwhile, the rest of the pirates jack into WebCT and monitor their surroundings, examine the diagrams of the downed overlayed with expected location of the cyborg, and communicate back with campus.

“Sir,” one of the web-connected pirates announces, “the captain says we have only five minutes to extract the cyborg before the jet’s internal computer realizes that it has been compromised and self destructs, a provision to prevent the cyborg technology from falling into the hands of anyone who many try to, heh, steal it.”

“That should be more than enough time for us,” Kanakanaka answers. “Now, seeing as how we’re almost at our target, one of you take the helm while I get that cyborg.”

With three minutes left till self destruction the chaplain dives off the sloop’s bow into the water next to the sinking jet. He has adorned himself for the occasion in waterproof garb with hundreds of tiny air jets and controllable buoyancy packets to facilitate water mobility He swims through a jagged hole in the side of the cabin and paddles to where his WebCT overlay pinpoints the location of the cyborg, contained in a large box strapped to a shelf just above water level. He swims over to it, cues up his APD (antigravity propulsion device), and prepares to boost himself and the cyborg back to the sloop, which has retreated away from the jet’s projected blast radius. The APD is designed to fly distances of several McMiles in a single hop, but with the added weight of the cyborg it will only take him several hundred McMeters.

“I’ve found it. Wait, there’s something wrong here. There are two of them. Which am I supposed to take?”

There is no answer.

“Ahoy? License to Keelhaul, are you there?”

There is still no answer.

The time display in the bottom left corner of Kanakanaka’s visual display turns bright red and begins counting down from 59 seconds.

“Scuppering hell. What in the seven seas is going on?”

A black blur skitters across the chaplain’s peripheral vision. In one continuous motion he whips the APD off his back, magnetically adheres it to one of the cyborg boxes chosen at random, and spins around in the water, drawing two high impact blunderbusses that had been holstered on his thighs. As he turns he fires two shots across the water, intending to hit the ninja swimming towards him. His bullets blow twin holes in the burning wall opposite him. A moment later he feels a blade begin to slice through his neck before the APD’s antigravitational burst throws him and his adversary through the jet’s weakened exterior hull and into the water beyond. The two manage one helpless glare at each other before the ball of flame from the now exploding jet incinerates them both.

The cyborg enclosing box flying towards Brown University sports one of the two labels:

Cybernetically enhanced humanoid or Web Based Artificial Intelligence.