"Ortiz, Sebastiano, heads up!" Mindful to avoid the asteroid's unnamed artificial moon, Gutierrez—with the old fighter pilot's sizzle in his veins—ordered his ships aloft, their blunt noses aimed (the actual calculation was more complicated) at his estimate of the missile's launch-point. Eichra Oren slammed into the right hand seat, assisting as if born to it. Asteroids are wonderful, Gutierrez thought, for all the things they don't have, like significant gravity. Shuddering dramatically, which only made the overall effect that much better, the Laika took off horizontally, just like the rocket ships in an old Flash Gordon serial.

  The word "orbit" had been abused to describe the locus of Earth's spacefleets, but the gravity of 5023 Eris was too negligible for that. The flotillas were disposed about the asteroid at roughly 120 degree intervals, keeping their eyes on both the surface and their rivals, but fuel—reaction mass, he reminded himself, these ships were fusion-powered—was being expended to keep them there. He didn't know whether the missile had been Russian or American. His copilot informed him that the Elders didn't know; everyone had been rattled by that first shot. As his own ship clawed its way into the sky, he expected to be blasted any second and thanked somebody's lousy reaction time when it didn't happen.

  "This is the Erisian Space Patrol," he told his mike and got a grin from Eichra Oren (he'd been looking forward to saying that for hours). "All alien fleets will withdraw to a distance of one hundred thousand klicks or be destroyed." He'd had no idea of tactics when he'd ordered the launch, just a pilot's reflexive need, with their base under attack, to get his planes off the deck. Might as well be hung for a sheep, he thought, as for a lamb.

  Delacroix had the same preference. John Reed chose that moment to fire several missiles. Gutierrez suspected that they were going to MIRV into dozens of smaller nuclear-tipped weapons. He couldn't tell whether they were aimed at the asteroid or at the shuttlecraft. He nudged the attitude control to drop the nose and slew it to starboard, lined up crosshairs painted on the windshield, and slapped a panel duct-taped to his seat arm.

  A ball of eye-searing brilliance flashed toward the American fleet at a respectable fraction of the speed of light, catching the incoming missiles before they could disperse and enveloping them in a cloud of incandescent gas. As the wave front, attenuated by an intervening fifty kilometers, caught the Laika, he knew the critics were wrong to nitpick space operas for their battle scenes. Explosions in a vacuum are perfectly audible—when they create their own temporary atmosphere. His ship buffeted by a man-made storm, he wrestled with the attitude controls and primary thrusters.

  Whenever his makeshift sights brushed across the fleet again, he stood his thumb on the trigger-panel and bore down. Distracted and confused, which was perfectly normal in combat, he never felt the blade sink into his neck until Eichra Oren leaped up to grapple with the assassin. Imprisoned by his seatbelt and unable to leave the controls in any event, the general could only watch—and listen—as whoever had attacked him caromed off the walls of the command deck with the Antarctican and his dog.

  Sam couldn't use his teeth. Handicapped by his suit, he had to settle for springing from wherever he found himself, crashing into the struggling men, hitting Eichra Oren as often as the killer he fought. Eichra Oren, hampered by his clumsy NASA outfit, wasn't up to his martial best. It was all he could do to control the long, slim knife, still slippery with the general's blood.

  The general's attention was elsewhere. So far, the intruding fleets had not engaged each other further, but were concentrating their energies on the three ancient but far from helpless shuttles. Gutierrez, one hand on the flight controls and the other on the firing panel, couldn't check to see how badly he was cut. He had to keep both eyes on the sky. Outside, one of Earth's ships exploded, spewing air and broken bodies.

  He shook his head to clear it, which didn't produce any better results than it ever did. His own wound was beginning to hurt now as air whistled from his punctured suit into a cabin that was only partly repressurized. The blade had glanced off the metal ring which formed the suit's collar and had entered, almost at right angles to the original thrust, driving between his collarbone and shoulder. Deep enough and he might lose a lung.

  A flash of light somewhere behind him put an abrupt stop to the wrestling noises. Gutierrez risked a brief glance. Eichra Oren had his fusion pistol in his hand and a torn thigh pocket to go with it. Half the assassin's body lay against the deck. The lower half was missing. Where it had been was a waist-thick cauterized stump.

  Gutierrez turned his attention to the battle again, just in time to sear another flock of missiles.

  With effort, Eichra Oren pried the helmet from the attacker's head.

  "Alvarez," Sam said. "I've been keeping an eye on him. What'll you bet he's Iron Butterfly, the one who probably summoned that fleet out there?"

  "No bets," the general answered over his shoulder. "Take a look at that!"

  One of Gutierrez's automatic follow-up shots had fetched the John Reed a glancing blow on her starboard wingtip. He could see her now, along with a pair of escorts, hypersonic aerospace planes considerably larger than the shuttles, a fanciful design once meant to carry more than a thousand paying passengers across the Pacific at many times the speed of sound. To his knowledge, the idea had been abandoned as pointlessly expensive and the craft never built. Now here they were, three of them—probably more out of sight—fitted up as warships and carrying a swarm of smaller craft which they'd released just before the John Reed was hit. The plasma explosion had vaporized half a wing and set the Soviet American flagship spinning like a badly balanced top about her yaw axis.

  "They seem to have skimped on attitude controls," Sam observed as the ship failed to slow and began breaking up with centrifugal stress. Ignoring her, the smaller ships, lifeboats or landing craft, the general wasn't certain which, began jetting for the asteroid. Getting handier with the plasma cannon, he picked as many off as he could until the angles changed and the asteroid was within his field of fire. The defenders on the surface were about to get very busy.

  Gutierrez had ordered Sebastiano's John Galt toward the five-ship Russian fleet. To him they were mere dots on radar, which, after a single multimissile salvo and a mass launch of their own small vessels, began to withdraw. Sebastiano's cannon, spectacular even at this distance, batted the attack aside. The colonel's victory whoop—which he'd have expected sooner from Ortiz—rang in the general's ears, but Gutierrez didn't have the heart to reprimand him. One errant missile, still intact, seemed to impact without harm on the asteroid's borrowed moon.

  Another volley, similar to that which had destroyed the John Reed, was less successful. The Russians had observed that the plasma weapons' speed far outstripped the reaction time of human or computerized gunners. They'd begun firing their Gatlings in the direction of Sebastiano's ship the instant they released their missiles. The resulting stream of projectiles was only partly effective at breaking up the ball of plasma streaking their way, but it saved the Russian flagship and the Banker with it. Damaged, the Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria withdrew at top velocity.

  Gutierrez, one hand holding his ripped suit closed now, thought about picking up survivors from the John Reed, but the remaining American ships beat him to it. He thought about examining his own wound, but pushed it out of his mind. Ortiz, following a longer assigned course toward the PRC fleet, demanded attention. "Don't look now, fellow space cadets," he remarked, "but we're flanked!"

  The major was correct. Instead of firing missiles, the Dee Jen Djieh and three auxiliaries stooped on the asteroid like birds of prey, releasing hundreds of smaller objects. The Yaqui officer described them as spacesuited figures who landed on the surface and disappeared. They seemed to have some easy means of penetrating the canopy. Mister Thoggosh denied via implant having anything to do with it. His property was being invaded, he told Gutierrez through Eichra Oren, and he was sending security forces to deal with the intruders.

  Before the general could give Eichra Oren a reply, a harsh light flared in the sky again. An unexpected interaction had occurred. Mister Thoggosh's unbeinged orbital station, with its automated neutrino-detector, was ablaze with dazzling white-hot thermonuclear fire. The nearby burst of a Russian atomic bomb had somehow ignited the little moonlet.

  The bizarre result was that a tiny, artificial sun now brightened the sky of 5023 Eris.

  FORTY-NINE Sleeping Dragon

  When PRC forces began appearing near their camp, the Americans were treated to a surprise. Not one was wearing anything describable as a uniform. Their leader (and all the rest as it turned out) spoke perfect colloquial English.

  "Hi there!" A young oriental in Levis and flannel shirt greeted Owen, the first person he encountered. "I'm Colonel Tai of the People's Republic Extra-Special Forces. Could you direct me to the officer in charge? I've orders from Admiral Hoong to place myself under his or her command. We're the cavalry, arriving in the nick of time."

  Sweating in the double-shadowed light of one sun too many, Owen looked to his companions, Danny and Tl*m*nch*l. Amidst the sound of faraway gunfire, the two men were trying, with scorpionoid assistance, to defend this sector of their perimeter. They'd already had a bit of sporadic shooting, nothing anyone would call a firefight, with Russian or American intruders (they weren't certain which) deeper in the forest. Whether this had produced any enemy casualties was something else they weren't sure of. They themselves were unscathed.

  Owen inspected the young PRC officer who, despite his casual clothing and a kerchief he'd tied to a branch, wore a large autopistol slung under one armpit in a black nylon harness, and an even larger knife suspended handle-down under the other. "That'll be General Gutierrez," Owen told him, shifting the shotgun on his shoulder and lifting a broad thumb toward a canopy much brighter than when they'd first arrived. "He's busy right now and so are his seconds, Colonel Sebastiano and Major Ortiz. I'm Corporal Owen—" He gave Danny a nudge. "This is Lieutenant Gutierrez."

  It was Danny's turn to blink, realizing that he was the officer in charge. "I suppose you're stuck with me, Colonel."

  "Fine by me," the officer responded. He lifted fingers to his lips and whistled. Men and women in civilian clothing, more heavily armed than their leader and with a startling variety of what were clearly personal weapons, began melting out of the forest. They formed up loosely around the two surprised and skeptical Americans.

  The scorpionoid laid a foreclaw on Danny's shoulder and did his best to imitate a whisper with his voice simulator. "Why do you and Roger not take Colonel Tai with you. I will stay here with his people."

  Danny saw the sense of it. "Good thinking, Tl*m*nch*l, but all alone?"

  In the distance, a grenade crumped. Chitin-armored manipulators rattled on Tl*m*nch*l's synthesizer where it hung beside his pistol. "No, Lieutenant, my people are scattered throughout these woods and are alert. We encircle them, should this prove to be a trick. Show the colonel your camp, I'll wait here."

  "Okay." Danny turned to the young officer. "Colonel, I can't bring your whole unit back with me. If they'll wait here with Tl*m*nch*l, we can go see Mr. Empleado or Pin—I mean, Major Ortega y Pena."

  Tai glanced at Tl*m*nch*l as if he were used to seeing aliens every day. "Okay, Lieutenant. One question: what do you want done with these?"

  At a gesture, several of his troops dragged half a dozen figures forward, arms bound behind them, and threw them at Danny's feet. It was less cruel than it might have been at full gravity. Danny looked down at two Russian Spetznaz officers in battle dress and four bruised and disgruntled ASSR Marines.

  * * *

  "—estimates from my experts that our artificial sun will be short-lived, merely lasting a couple of thousand years. They're readjusting the temperature and humidity as we speak."

  At camp, Mister Thoggosh was more in charge than anybody else. He'd returned with the general from the dig, but had decided to direct his own defenses from here, drinking beer through a plastic tube in his protective suit. Sporadic, faraway gunfire could still be heard as the PRC, the American expeditionaries, and the party of the Elders' people continued mopping up invaders.

  "I'm impressed, Colonel Tai," the Proprietor admitted once a kettle had been set on the fire for tea. "We and our allies—with individuals from the ASSR expedition—welcome your support with gratitude. We nautiloids are amateurs in a field in which humans are the acknowledged experts."

  Adjusting his weapons harness, the colonel settled by the fire despite the warmth overhead. He glanced around at the tents and other evidence of people roughing it on the terraformed asteroid. "And that would be?"

  "War, my dear Colonel. `Killing people and breaking things.' We haven't fought one in thousands of millennia. And in this particular battle, I'm afraid, nobody has the proper equipment or is altogether certain what to do. It was pure good fortune that our canopy was `smart' enough to filter out the radiation from atomic weapons. Which reminds me—would you mind telling me how you got through it?"

  "I'm pretty curious about that, myself." Still in his spacesuit, Gutierrez strode into camp with Sam and Eichra Oren. Toya rose from the fire to stand at the latter's side. Rosalind, who'd started to get up, sat down again. Danny suspected that Eichra Oren was about to have trouble. "Before anybody asks, the shooting's stopped upstairs, at least for now. The Russians and Americans have withdrawn amidst ugly muttering and threats from the Banker. Ortiz and Sebastiano are still out there patrolling, backed up by Admiral Hoong. My ship's refueling, so I can relieve them."

  The man looked drawn and pale to his son and held his head at an angle. Perhaps only Danny understood that there was more to it than refueling or his father would have stayed with his ship. The PRC fleet was out there which meant that, having long avoided it, the rest of the expedition would now be forced to choose sides as the shuttle commanders had. It was a situation unlike any they'd faced before. In his mind were old movies about West Point on the eve of the War Between the States.

  "Enzymes," replied Colonel Tai. "Your first reports were analyzed and, well, passed on, both to Russian and Chinese intelligence. I believe we arrived at the solution first, but . . ."

  Gutierrez laughed. "Your secrets are as volatile as everybody else's?"

  The colonel grimaced. "In any event, spray-application opened the canopy and closed it so that little air was lost. You've seen our prisoners?" He indicated the Russians and Americans, squatting in a row against one of the modules removed from the shuttles to make room for fuel. "We captured these Marines on the ground, having killed many of their comrades, but the Russians were trapped halfway through the canopy like flies in amber. These are the survivors. Their aerosol spray was too dilute."

  "Russian quality control—or somebody's brother-in-law watering the stock to make an extra ruble." Gutierrez shook his head. "Very well, Colonel, what do you intend doing now?"

  "Whatever you ask, sir, consistent with my nation's interests. I'm to assist under your orders. This group's one of twenty-three of which I'm in command. Altogether we are five hundred twenty-nine." He tapped an earpiece he was wearing. "I'm told we now have a great many more prisoners, too."

  The gunfire did seem to be tapering off. The general whistled at the prospect of his command increasing more than tenfold. "Thanks, Colonel, I'll get back to you. If you'll excuse me . . ." He turned to Danny. "Lieutenant, have the company fall in, those not engaged in essential tasks."

  "Sir!" Danny snapped a salute and began gathering the shuttle crews together. Perhaps the others had anticipated what was about to happen; the task was accomplished in only a few minutes.

  It was obvious that Mister Thoggosh was satisfied. Rounding up personnel, Danny overheard him tell Eichra Oren—without benefit of implants—that it was a sign that "these organisms" were "learning to think for themselves. Despite Aelbraugh Pritsch's contrary urging," he told the Antarctican, "I intend to refrain from offering them any advice. As I informed my assistant, if they can learn to do the right thing, perhaps even bird-beings might learn to relax a little." Eichra Oren glanced at Toya and chuckled. Sam said something about Hell freezing over. Danny assumed the message had been meant for American ears although he didn't know why he'd been chosen to hear it. He'd pass it along to his father. The assembled company was asked to sit on the ground.

  "So far," the general told his people, "events haven't left us much time for choices. The arrival of three fleets from Earth was a surprise even to the Elders, and we were fired on without warning. All we've done is defend ourselves. It may take some fancy legal work, but if anybody's interested, I'm willing to bet the offer from Admiral Delacroix is still open, and that the Banker will be willing to talk a deal, as well. Now that we've bought the time, we all have some thinking to do."

  Gutierrez reminded his fellow human beings of everything that had happened here on 5023 Eris. On one hand, he pointed out, there were the Elders who, in their gruff, perplexing manner, had befriended them. They owed their lives many times over to these odd beings from a parallel reality. On the other hand, there were the governments of their own planet, made up of human beings like themselves. Did the expeditionaries owe them any special loyalty?

  "Loyalty," Rosalind spoke aloud—and yet almost as if she were speaking to herself—"is supposed to be a two-way street."

  "Excellent point," answered the Russian agriculturalist, Valerian. "Have these institutions ever done anything but exploit those of whom they demand loyalty—and in our case, betray and abandon us?"