male—looked silly, standing off to the side in the red, bulky, all-over body armor that the Thousand Worlds Commerce Department provided for wear in the field. It was important to the CD that their representatives be both visible—and the bright, day-glo crimson was that—and protected. The armor, a product of offworld technology that even Metzada couldn't duplicate, and certainly wouldn't be permitted to import, could protect the TW observer from a stray round or even burst, or a near miss of a grenade. Additional protection for the observer was provided by an overhead CD helo and a squad of Peacemakers, each in shiny black reticulated armor, looking for all the worlds like a half dozen oversized insects.
The armor and bodyguards wouldn't do any good, not outside the fringes of a real battle, and it was a certainty that the observer knew that. The TW might be run by a bunch of assholes, but that didn't make them cowards.
Under the eye of the silent observer, Shimon Bar-El squared off against the fedeltists.
II Distacamento de la Fedeltà, the Casalingpaesesercito Loyalty Detachment, dressed its officers and enlisted differently than the plain olive drab or speckled camo of the Casa regulars: their uniforms were black tunics over scarlet trousers, the three officers' tunics trimmed in gold and silver, their six enlisted bodyguards' in yellow and white. They were all in garrison uniforms, not field gear, despite the businesslike rifles the bodyguards were carrying. Each of the officers had a shiny chromed pistol in an open holster. Ridiculous, for a combat zone.
Peled never liked garritroopers. Standing next to rumpled, dirty Colonello Sergio Chiabrera, who held a borrowed Barak in two clenched fists, they looked like toy soldiers.
But if an apparently harmless writing stylo could kill—and Peled knew that it could; he had done it—so could a shiny chromed pistol, completely unsuited for a combat zone.
Chiabrera pursed his lips and nodded a greeting at Peled.
Shimon, Dov looming next to him, had squared off with the Casas. That put them squarely between where the Casas and Sergio eyed the captives—
No. Peled caught himself. Shimon and Dov stood between the Casas, including Sergio Chiabrera, and the Freiheimer captives, each hand-and leg-cuffed, each controlled by two husky Metzadan PFCs, rifles and knives rigged properly, well out of the prisoners' reach.
"—you really must turn the prisoners over to us. We'll find out the truth, never fear, General," said the senior fedeltist, a major. He was a short, stocky man with a too-easy grin, his cheeks and chin covered in a manifestly affected combat soldier's three-day beard. "We'll find out the truth." He spoke Basic with the fluid melody of a native speaker of Italiano.
Shimon shook his head. "Negative on that, Maggiore Zuchelli. Once I turn them over to you, they're saboteurs. Caught out of uniform, local rules apply. We caught them in your uniforms. If they're Casalingpaesan—"
"Please."
"—if they're Casas, dammit, then you're in violation of our contract: deliberate assault on friendly forces."
"And our helo? What was that?"
Bar-El's lips whitened. "My men, dammit, came under fire from the Casa helo, after it was warned off. You want to make something of it?"
"Three of his men were killed by that helo, Maggiore," Chiabrera said quietly.
" No. That's not the way I play the game, Colonel Chiabrera. Irrelevant," Shimon Bar-El said. "We didn't down the helo because it killed some of my men; I ordered it down because it posed a threat to my regiment. Claro? "
Next to him, Dov stiffened, desisting at Bar-El's microscopic headshake.
The fedeltist didn't catch it. "These sorts of things happen, Generale, as well you know. 'Friendly fire is not,' eh?"
Bar-El looked the DF officer over long and hard. Then he shrugged. "Fine. And as to these, if they're not Casas, then they've dressed as Casas in order to provoke an apparent violation, and that puts them
The armor and bodyguards wouldn't do any good, not outside the fringes of a real battle, and it was a certainty that the observer knew that. The TW might be run by a bunch of assholes, but that didn't make them cowards.
Under the eye of the silent observer, Shimon Bar-El squared off against the fedeltists.
II Distacamento de la Fedeltà, the Casalingpaesesercito Loyalty Detachment, dressed its officers and enlisted differently than the plain olive drab or speckled camo of the Casa regulars: their uniforms were black tunics over scarlet trousers, the three officers' tunics trimmed in gold and silver, their six enlisted bodyguards' in yellow and white. They were all in garrison uniforms, not field gear, despite the businesslike rifles the bodyguards were carrying. Each of the officers had a shiny chromed pistol in an open holster. Ridiculous, for a combat zone.
Peled never liked garritroopers. Standing next to rumpled, dirty Colonello Sergio Chiabrera, who held a borrowed Barak in two clenched fists, they looked like toy soldiers.
But if an apparently harmless writing stylo could kill—and Peled knew that it could; he had done it—so could a shiny chromed pistol, completely unsuited for a combat zone.
Chiabrera pursed his lips and nodded a greeting at Peled.
Shimon, Dov looming next to him, had squared off with the Casas. That put them squarely between where the Casas and Sergio eyed the captives—
No. Peled caught himself. Shimon and Dov stood between the Casas, including Sergio Chiabrera, and the Freiheimer captives, each hand-and leg-cuffed, each controlled by two husky Metzadan PFCs, rifles and knives rigged properly, well out of the prisoners' reach.
"—you really must turn the prisoners over to us. We'll find out the truth, never fear, General," said the senior fedeltist, a major. He was a short, stocky man with a too-easy grin, his cheeks and chin covered in a manifestly affected combat soldier's three-day beard. "We'll find out the truth." He spoke Basic with the fluid melody of a native speaker of Italiano.
Shimon shook his head. "Negative on that, Maggiore Zuchelli. Once I turn them over to you, they're saboteurs. Caught out of uniform, local rules apply. We caught them in your uniforms. If they're Casalingpaesan—"
"Please."
"—if they're Casas, dammit, then you're in violation of our contract: deliberate assault on friendly forces."
"And our helo? What was that?"
Bar-El's lips whitened. "My men, dammit, came under fire from the Casa helo, after it was warned off. You want to make something of it?"
"Three of his men were killed by that helo, Maggiore," Chiabrera said quietly.
" No. That's not the way I play the game, Colonel Chiabrera. Irrelevant," Shimon Bar-El said. "We didn't down the helo because it killed some of my men; I ordered it down because it posed a threat to my regiment. Claro? "
Next to him, Dov stiffened, desisting at Bar-El's microscopic headshake.
The fedeltist didn't catch it. "These sorts of things happen, Generale, as well you know. 'Friendly fire is not,' eh?"
Bar-El looked the DF officer over long and hard. Then he shrugged. "Fine. And as to these, if they're not Casas, then they've dressed as Casas in order to provoke an apparent violation, and that puts them
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