Free Hero by Joel Rosenberg

outside the rules. They stay under my control. Your local rules are more restrictive, but at the moment they're captives of war—no rights."
    The fedeltist opened his mouth as though to say something, but closed it. He smiled broadly, then spread his arms, wordlessly announcing that he wouldn't be bothered by issues of rights in his questioning of the prisoners.
    It was half-clever, and Zuchelli almost strutted his pleasure. The TW observer was behind him, and wouldn't have been able to see the smile. From the point of view of the Thousand Worlder, the fedeltist had thrown up his hands in frustration at the Metzadan's intransigence. On Shimon's head be it.
    Bureaucrat. Peled turned his back to the fedeltist and puffed for his private line to Bar-El. "He's just playing for the observer, Shimon," Peled whispered into his microphone. "I don't think he really wants them; he just wants to make it clear that he's not responsible for what we do to them."
    He turned back in time to see Shimon Bar-El shake his head, as though to say, "Don't bother me with the obvious."
    The elder of the two Freiheimers straightened fractionally; a Metzadan hand whipped out and clutched the back of his head. "I am Horst Fleiss, stabsunter-offizier, Der Freiheimdemokratischrepublik. Upon proper request, I will give you my vater's name and my service number; I will tell you nothing more." He squinted hard against the daylight, and didn't appear to be focusing properly. Metzadan doctrine for controlling prisoners in the field called for a few drops of carbachol sprayed into each eye.
    Shimon didn't seem to hear him. He looked at the other Freiheimer. This one was younger, probably about eighteen standard years, wide-eyed. There was a trickle of fresh blood at the right side of his mouth.
    Shimon looked at Dov and raised an eyebrow.
    "Not me, Uncle Shimon."
    "I didn't like the looks of one of his molars," Sergeant David Elon said, brandishing his medician's scanner.
    "Poison pill?"
    Elon grinned, then shook his head. "Just a lousy crown," he said, digging two fingers into a chest pocket, pulling out a bloodied white tooth. "I guessed wrong." He shrugged. "Not all that elite, eh? Exit-pill was in his pocket," he said, rattling a small glassine vial.
    "Name?" Shimon asked.
    The younger Freiheimer didn't answer.
    "You will not make him talk, either." Fleiss drew himself up proudly.
    Bar-El puffed out his cheeks and sighed in irritation. "I don't have a lot of time for this, but let's give it a try, anyway. You were caught in Casa uniforms; by local rules, that makes you saboteurs. Death sentence, but the Geneva protections apply.
    "But we're not under Casa authority, not at the moment. We're technically allied, not subordinate. That means that you've attacked us in allied uniforms. By my reading of the codes, that puts you outside the rules, and makes you captives of war. No rights. I can't turn you over to the Casas, 'cause all they can do is kill you or interrogate you under Geneva rules. And if they don't execute you as saboteurs, they'll prisoner-trade you.
    "I'm not going to have that. Once we're out of my area of operations—and, shit, this is only technically my AO because you jumped us in it—they'll have the authority to ask for you, and they will, unless I've got some results out of you.
    "I can't turn you over to my interrogation team for a sharp needle and a quick chat, because they're still skyside." Bar-El shrugged. "Comments?"
    "It sounds like you have a problem, Herr General Bar-El." The stabsunteroffizier's voice dripped with sarcasm.
    "Dov. No ."
    The big man had shifted marginally; he froze in place.
    Shimon Bar-El sighed as he looked over at Peled. "You've got your battalion staff put together?"
    "Not really. Not yet." Dammit, Shimon, you know I'm not an organizer.
    "Fine. I'll take care of it," the general said, turning back to the prisoners. "Well, then, we'd better end this now," he said, more to himself than to anybody. "Observer,"