Chapter 15: The Prisoner
September 29th, 3025
Unclaimed Space
Kimi System
Three days of waiting gave Donavan a lot of time to rest and think. No decisions to make, no orders to give. The last few years had been… difficult. He'd learned a huge amount, about finances, organizations, logistics, contracts, and on and on. He'd learned about the actual workings of 'Mechs and their parts, memorized details of hundreds of 'Mechs. He'd learned about the constant knife-fight that was politics. And while he'd thought he was a reasonably good pilot back home, the pilot he'd become could dance circles around his former self.
He'd also changed in ways he was less pleased with. He was a killer now. He tried not to kill needlessly, but he'd killed a lot of people, and he'd do it again without hesitation if he needed to. In the name of necessity, he'd taken on jobs for bad people, he'd stolen, destroyed, and killed good people because if he didn't, the whole thing would fall apart.
This new job with Lady Arano fell somewhere in between. The Directorate had turned out to be authoritarian dirtbags, but that described most, if not all, of the Inner Sphere's Great Houses. Arano was willing to kill a lot of her own people to reclaim power, and would she do much better? Would the realm be so devastated they were simply swallowed up by the Taurians, or someone else? It was impossible to know.
No… no, he had not left the galaxy a better place than he'd found it. But they had freedom—more freedom than most in this galaxy had. Not beholden to any master, at least until the money ran out. It was enough. It had to be.
And as the long nights wore on, he stared into his small fire and thought. He thought (briefly) about what the locals would do to him if they got here before his people. He thought about what he would miss if he was stuck here for the rest of a likely very short life. The indescribable adrenaline rush of combat, pitting himself and his people in the ultimate contest. The grins and whoops of pilots unleashed on shore leave. And in particular, the thin smile of a talented pilot.
But eventually, inevitably, his thoughts returned to the Blackjack. Amanda. He thought about his family who had lived and died in this beat-up old girl. His last claim to nobility died with this forty-five-ton death dealing machine. Had he lived up to their legacy? What was that legacy when it was all said and done?
Did it mean anything? Any of it?
Either way, his path was clear. There was no way back, not any longer. All he had left now was Donavan's Wolves. They were his family now, the Argo his home. And as evening began to fall on the fourth day the wind rustled in the trees and a distant whine quickly materialized into a very familiar-looking Leopard. The DropShip hovered, considering landing options. The angle of the ridge wasn't ideal, but a hundred meters back or so it was a little more level and the rain of LRM's had flattened everything, making enough room for Sumire to gently settle the ship down, landing struts sinking a half-dozen centimeters into the ash.
Donavan picked himself up, then hesitated. He turned back to take one more look around the wreckage that was his last tie to the past. After a long look, he snapped off the melted joystick, tucked it into his pack, and headed back outside. Long before he reached the Leopard a Shadow Hawk, Vindicator, and Centurion had marched out and begun salvage operations. He could almost hear Yang calling out instructions over the comms as they coordinated to recover whatever equipment they could. Aside from what they could recover from the Blackjack, the Fleas had gone down, two of the Wasps were scuttled, and there was the big prize of the two Heavy 'Mechs, the Catapults.
His thoughts stuttered to a halt as he finally approached the Leopard. There, standing at the top of the gangway, stood Sumire. She was dressed in her usual attire of dark blue flight suit and knee-high utilitarian boots. Her short black hair was pulled back into a bun and she leaned against the doorway casually, arms crossed, not quite hiding a relieved smile.
"There you are. I thought you'd run off in embarrassment."
He couldn't help but smile back at her. "No, I remember the lessons I got when I was a kid—when you get lost, stay right where you are, and the ones you care about will come find you."
Her eyes widened just a touch, then she nodded. "Of course. That's what you keep me around for, right?"
On impulse, he stepped closer and gave her a hug. She hesitated for a small moment, made awkward by being a little off-balance, then wrapped her arms around him. It was wonderful for a moment, but the close proximity made clear just how long he'd been in the woods, and she broke the embrace. "It's good to have you back, but you need a shower. Urgently."
"No arguments from me. A shower, some real food, and I'm ready to be off this planet."
…
Donavan stared dubiously at the reports on his desk that had accumulated while he was away. He'd ridden up on the Leopard, then stuck around the Argo to catch up on things while the DropShip made a second run to finish collecting the last of the salvage. They'd gotten back nearly four hours ago, and he still wasn't caught up yet. Fuel levels and charts from Sumire showing their potential destinations. Repair reports, ammunition and spares supplies, and requested parts and tools (and personnel) from Yang. Medical supply levels and updates on Dekker (almost cleared for return!) from Dr. Harrin. Financial reports, loan statements, varying interest rates, refinancing offers, and lists of available contracts and negotiable payment models for them from Darius. And of course, the much shorter after-action reports from the pilots about what had happened, issues with the 'Mechs, and concerns.
He was just resigning himself to pick which one to start on next when he was interrupted by a knock at the airlock door. "Come in!"
The airlock slid open to reveal Elise "Sunshine" Rain. The pale woman, unusually slender for a 'Mech Warrior, wore her now-trademarked dour expression, and had her black hair pulled back into a braid. She hesitated a moment at the unexpected size of the office, before squaring her shoulders and marching inside, meeting his eyes with the self-confident, borderline challenging look that virtually all 'MechWarriors shared.
Donavan couldn't blame her for that – he was still taken aback by it every time he walked in here. It wasn't an office so much as it was an office suite. The main room was a workspace, with a full-sized desk, computer system tapped into the Argo's network, and a second desk he hadn't figured out what to do with yet. Off to the side was a smaller bedroom, with a queen-sized bed, walk-in closet, and even his own private restroom, which was an almost obscene luxury.
It didn't take long for Sunshine to overcome her surprise, and Donavan waved her into the chair opposite his own. "What can I do for you, Elise?"
She stared back at him for a long moment, choosing her words carefully before she spoke. "I have a concern about our operation, sir. Or maybe more of a question."
"You know you don't have to call me 'sir,' right? Did Glitch put you up to it?"
She shook her head. "It's just habit. I'm… still getting used to being a mercenary."
"Fair enough. Shoot."
"Well, our missions are a lot more… destructive than what I'm used to from back in the Heliat Guard. Is that normal for our operations?"
Donavan leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and fingers steepled in front of him while he pondered how to respond. "Yes and no. The short answer is that mercenary contracts tend to end more decisively than military ops, but the pace of our last few missions has been unusually high even for that."
She frowned. "But… why, sir? A military has established supply lines, can more easily replace losses, and can actually enjoy the benefits of seizing objectives long-term, even at significant costs. Shouldn't it be the other way around for mercenaries?"
"From our perspective, it would be wonderful. But it's not, and that's one of the main reasons most mercenary outfits don't last through their second year. But picture yourself as an Aurigan detachment commander. Just because losses can be replaced doesn't mean it's easy to do. Every replacement part or 'Mech headed to you is one not going to the next planet over, and if your rate of attrition goes up even slightly across the entire Reach, you have to start giving up whole planets just to make ends meet. So back during the start of the Succession Wars, sure, the armies would push for decisive actions. But now, with 'Mechs so difficult to replace on a large scale, the militaries are even more hesitant to commit forces than ever."
"I don't follow."
Donavan looked up at the ceiling for a moment, considering. "Think of it this way. The Taurians could squash the Directorate if they really wanted to. They have far more 'Mechs, DropShips, and troops to do it. But they don't – because if they did, it would take years, maybe even decades, to replace all of their losses, and during that time someone like the Federated Suns could invade them. So now, everyone is careful of their 'Mechs, and they hesitate to commit their forces. They'll face off against each other, skirmish, maneuver around, but once one side starts to get an advantage they'll pull out. Tanks and infantry can do a lot, but they really only stand a chance against 'Mechs if the 'Mechs aren't supported – when they're protected by their own traditional forces, the conventional forces don't have a chance, so they pull out, too. The 'Mechs will get banged up, maybe one or two knocked out, and everyone goes home. And that's where we come in."
She nodded. "That makes sense. If you don't have to replace their losses, you want to put the mercenaries in decisive action, since even if they fail they will cause some losses, and if you're right, tipping the scale even a little is enough to get a whole army to withdraw without a pitched battle. You don't put at risk what you can't afford to lose. But… shouldn't that be more true for mercenaries? Don't militaries have economies of scale?"
"Yes, but where production is limited that scales only to a point. And trust me, the production of 'Mechs is very limited. With raiding forces constantly moving around, not to mention mercenaries, having a separate factory to churn out each part of a 'Mech might be far more efficient, but it's also inviting disaster. If just one goes down, you don't get any fully ready 'Mechs. So instead, everyone has to have smaller scale factories that build entire 'Mechs, supported by a handful of factories that make spare parts. That way, losing one doesn't destroy your ability to resupply. And that's not even counting some worlds being required to provide so many complete 'Mechs per year to their houses."
"So?"
"So," continued Donavan, "that is a very inefficient way to build anything, much less something as complicated as a 'Mech, and that limits most of the benefits of scale. If we come into town and need to rebuild half a Centurion from spare parts, we can do that without too much trouble even in a small shop. But if you're a full Company deployed to a desert world and you need sixty replacement leg actuators, that's a different story. The factories will have a much easier time sending you two replacement 'Mechs than enough leg actuators to keep the rest of you going."
"I guess I hadn't thought of the logistics of it that way before." She considered his words for another few seconds, nodded, and stood. "Thanks for your time, Commander."
He stood too. "Any time."
She looked like she wanted to salute, but restrained herself to a nod, then turned and left, marching out with her back ramrod straight like a soldier on parade. Donavan considered her as her shadow disappeared around the corner. Was it a good sign that she'd felt comfortable coming straight to him? Or did it show she wasn't fitting in with the others?
He sighed, uncertain. Of all parts of managing a mercenary company, getting a feel for his people remained the most difficult part for him. He glanced back down at the paperwork and grimaced; he wasn't going to get anything else done tonight. He let the paperwork sit and walked out into the hallway and down the corridor towards the 'Mech Bay.
It was a surprisingly long walk, then down a lift, then another short hallway until he reached the large 'Mech Bay. Again, he was impressed by the sheer size of the place. Machinery, much of it inactive, hung everywhere. And down below Yang directed his 'Mech Teks, who swarmed over the 'Mechs nestled in their stalls back between the scaffolding.
He swallowed hard as he glanced at the stall where his Blackjack used to stand. In its place stood another machine, bigger and heavier than his old 'Mech. Part of him still couldn't believe that Catapult was his. The sixty-five ton 'Mech had a full two meters over the Centurion next to it and towered over the partially assembled Spider.
Yang caught sight of him watching and waved him over. "Hey, good to see you down in the grease pit. What can I do for you, boss?"
Donavan jerked his head towards their newly acquired 'Mech. "How's she looking?"
The lead MechTek grinned. "You've got good timing—we just finished replacing the cockpit from the other Catapult. We had to manually reset the entire computer system from scratch to get around the security systems, but it looks like it's all up and running. Want to get a feel for it?"
"Absolutely."
Yang led the way, taking him up through the scaffolding towards the cockpit. Hoo boy. This is going to be… different. For starters, where the Blackjack's cockpit was largely vertical, the Catapult's was the point of a cone, with the Magna 200 engine behind him instead of below him. That made it look something like an attack helicopter on legs, an image strengthened by the large box LRM launchers that took the place of arms. The cockpit canopy even lifted up like an ancient fighter craft.
He clambered down into the cockpit and settled himself into the command couch, then took a moment to acclimate himself while Yang leaned over and watched. It was similar, in the way that all 'Mechs needed more or less the same controls, but it was quite different in the little things. For starters, he was further off the ground than in the Blackjack. Longer legs with the oddly shaped cockpit, coupled with the heavy, shoulder-mounted LRMs were going to move his center of gravity up quite a bit, which would take some getting used to.
Where in the Blackjack's command couch was upright, almost standing, in the Catapult he was practically lying down. As awkward as that made him feel, at least everything seemed to be in more or less the right place. His left hand gasped the throttle, dialed all the way back, and his right fit naturally enough on the joystick, but the firing controls were different. The LRM's were linked to a trigger on the stick, while the lasers were on a thumb button. The console to his right controlled linking the triggers to different numbers of lasers and one or both LRM launchers.
His feet rested on two polished steel pedals which controlled the direction of the 'Mech while the joystick rotated the torso with the weapons. Stomping on both would activate the JumpJets. It was all there, just… different. The amount of force to move the throttle, how far down the pedals responded, it was all just a little off. He wasn't looking forward to getting used to a new 'Mech all over again.
With a sigh he released the controls and glanced around the rest of the surprisingly spacious cockpit. The cooling vest plug-in was to the left rather than the right. The medical kit was mounted up on the wall rather than on his chair, which seemed like a bad idea. The BattleRom, which recorded all sensor data from the 'Mech and stored it in a hardened black box, was bolted to the floor. In the space behind the command couch was a fold-out latrine and some small storage units for survival gear, food, and other odds and ends.
Yang looked down from above. "How's it feeling?"
"Good, Yang—she looks great. It will just take a while to get used to is all…" He frowned, looking closer at the dashboard. There was some residue there, like tape. He hunched over awkwardly and scanned the floor. It was unusually neat for a cockpit, which usually ended up looking like the insides of a long-haul freighter after a while. Sure enough, lost on the floor and flipped over was a small picture of a man and woman with the traditional Capellan non-smile flanking a boy of maybe seven or eight years old. The man was dressed in a utilitarian jumpsuit uniform, but the woman wore the full dress uniform of a Capellan Confederation Armed Forces Captain.
Huh. He looked up at Yang, who shrugged. "Must have missed it, sorry."
"Find anything else in here?"
"No. the cockpit was actually pretty well spotless, aside from some blood we hosed out. No other personal effects."
"I see. Well, speaking of, I better have a little chat with our new guest."
Yang extended a hand to help Donavan climb out of the cockpit. "Better you than me. Give me another few hours and we should be ready to reset the Diagnostic Interpretation Computer to read your voice identification and set up your passphrase."
…
Donavan sat in a makeshift cell in the Argo's cargo area. It wasn't much more than a storage area with a lock on the door and a guard outside, but it would have to do for the moment. He sat on a cheap plastic chair across a low table from the pilot of the second Catapult. The Capellan had more Russian than Chinese ethnic heritage, with pale skin and almost platinum blonde hair worn in a long braid. She was older than in her picture by maybe a decade, though it was hard to tell, making her thirty? Thirty-five?
She was also worse for the wear from the recent fight. Her right side was banged up, with the arm in a sling and her eye still swollen shut. Dr. Harrin had stitched up the nasty gash on the side of her head, but her hair was still stained with dried blood and she looked even paler from the blood loss.
The commander watched her impassively, trying to get a feel for the woman. Despite the lingering pain she must be feeling, she sat straight, her face set in a blank expression, giving away nothing, that the Capellans had made famous. All active MechWarriors were in excellent physical condition thanks to long hours wrestling with a monster of a machine, but she had surpassed that. She looked lethal, with the rock-solid physique of a trained martial artist.
She still wore her battered cooling vest and running shorts from when her unconscious form had been hauled out of the cockpit. Her only identification was the rank of a MechWarrior and the insignia of Warrior House Dai Da Chi, an inverted triangle with a Chinese dragon of green and yellow with a red mane.
Donavan took a slow breath and began. "So, here we are. Let's get this out of the way, first. We are mercenaries, not soldiers. I have no interest in you or whatever state secrets you might hold. All I'm interested in are C-bills. You and your friends blew up my 'Mech, and it's going to cost a lot to replace. So if you can tell me your rank, name, and unit, I'll be happy to pass that along and we'll both get what we want; I get paid, and you go home."
The woman leaned forward across the table sneering so hard it was nearly a snarl, and Donavan forced himself not to recoil—beneath that icy exterior boiled barely contained rage. "There is no point. Kill me and be done with it. Give me that honor, at least." She spoke in precise mandarin.
Donavan's mandarin was rusty, but he pressed forward regardless. "Easy now, let's slow down on the killing talk. How about this. Let's start with a name. I'm Donavan of Donavan's Wolves. You are a MechWarrior, clearly – does that make you lieutenant? I'm not as clear on the Warrior House ranking system."
She returned to her ramrod straight posture, looking as if she wanted to spit, but eventually nodded. "I am Lieutenant Xi."
Donavan nodded approvingly, a little surprised by the name given her clearly Russian roots. The Capellan Confederation, like all the Inner Houses, had at least some of every ethnic group, and so while ethnic Chinese was the stereotype, Russian was probably the largest minority among many others.
"Well, Lieutenant Xi, let me make clear that you have nothing to be ashamed of—you fought well. While heavily outnumbered, you fought while falling back and damaged a number of our 'Mechs. You did not surrender until your 'Mech literally fell apart around you. You've got a bright future ahead of you, so why don't you help me get you home?"
Her impassive face trembled with emotion barely held in check once again. "Future? There is no future. We failed in our mission. Nothing waits for me but dishonor."
Donavan frowned. He was missing something here. "What dishonor? You're talking like an honor-obsessed Kuritan. You followed orders. You were a MechWarrior, not a Lance Leader. The loss is not on you. What dishonor are you talking about?"
She stared at him in stony silence, and Donavan felt irritation begin to rise. Time to try a different tact. "Your Lance Leader bet that the destruction of one 'Mech would make the rest of us break off and concentrated all of your fire. That bet failed. It was not your fault. The only 'dishonor,' if you want to call it that, would be if you were outfought by inferior opponents. Let me be frank. If you insinuate that my people are inferior to you, I will lower the ransom price."
That, at last, seemed to break through, and her already pale face turned stark white. "No…"
Donovan stared back at her, unflinching. "Try me."
A long, tense moment passed, then she looked away. Asking for less money in a ransom was a calculated insult, a claim that the individual wasn't a true MechWarrior. Such a gesture from money-loving mercenaries was the most powerful insult he could think of off-hand.
"Well then, since it clearly wasn't because we are inferior, why don't you explain again why losing to me was such a dishonor?"
She hesitated, physically trembling with impotent rage and shame. "This… was a test. The dishonor is in failing the test, not in the… manner of the defeat."
Donavan sat back and thought, rolling over in his mind what he knew about Lieutenant Xi. She'd been in the CCAF regular military roughly a decade ago before transferring to the Dai Da Chi, probably less given how good she was in the cockpit and still just a Lieutenant. Her disciplined fighting and perfectly clean BattleMech spoke of the kind of obsessive personality that wasn't likely to get busted down for a night of drunken partying out on the town, so why was she still a Lieutenant? And how did she wind up in the Warrior House to begin with? He wasn't familiar with the famously secretive bunch, but he'd always heard they trained children rather than accept adult transfers. Then there was the fact that they were way the hell out here, virtually unsupported, on a backwater like Kimi with two heavy 'Mechs on what smelled like a spec ops mission.
That wasn't the kind of mission you sent a questionable MechWarrior that was inexplicably held back from promotion. On the other hand, there was another explanation. One he knew all too well.
"I have a theory, Xi. Your anger, your drive, your insistence you have nothing to go back for, I've seen it before. You're not mad at me, not really, are you? No, you're angry at yourself. You blame yourself."
She flinched involuntarily, and he pressed forward. "It was only a few years ago, for me. I was away with my 'Mech, the one you just destroyed, when my family was killed. When they needed me most, I wasn't there." His voice cracked with emotion, still raw. "I know what that looks like, what that feels like. That's why I'm a mercenary, Xi. So when I tell you that you can find a reason to keep going, I know what I'm talking about."
Xi sat quietly for a long moment before muttering a curse in Russian, then continuing again in English, her voice soft. "You are… partly right. I had a husband and a son. My husband was killed in battle by a raiding party of Federated Suns. After his death I… questioned the wisdom of his deployment so far forward, tempting the enemy to attack them in an ambush. My son, he is a believer, a fanatic. One of his teachers was a Maskirovka agent and turned him against me, set him to watch me. Then he approached me with a message. I had some talent as a MechWarrior; I must join a warrior house and succeed, or my son's ambition would be stifled for my failures."
She looked into his eyes pleadingly. "He would hate me, commander. I cannot return home, not in failure."
"Well, that puts me in a difficult position, Xi. I'll have to think about this." He climbed to his feet, reached into his jacket, and pulled out the photo. "In the meantime, we found this in the cockpit. I think it belongs to you."
Xi snatched it from his hand and clenched it close.
…
It was quite late shipboard time before Donavan, Darius, and Sumire could get together in the lounge to talk over what to do with their Capellan captive. "So, what do you think?"
Darius rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. The Capellans aren't as insane when it comes to their honor codes as the Kuritans, but the old 'come back a winner or don't come back' is right up their alley. But it's a bit too good of a sob story—I wouldn't put it past the Maskirovka to have this as their plan B already set up in advance. You said it yourself, Commander—her cockpit was scrubbed before the mission."
Sumire, uncharacteristically, looked uncertain. "That is suspicious, but they were dropping on a hostile planet in a move that would be sure to piss off a lot of traders nearby. They wouldn't want to broadcast who they were if they failed. The worst part, from where I'm sitting, is that both things might be true. From the horror stories I've heard about the Maskirovka, they might be blackmailing her with her son's future and using that as a perfectly genuine cover story at the same time."
Donavan rubbed his temples as he felt a headache coming on. "I hadn't even considered that possibility. Well, at least for the moment I think she's at least partially telling the truth. If she planted the photo and it was the key to her entire cover story, it would take a near superhuman effort not to bring it up. And as far as I can tell, she wants to stay away from Capellan space, not get back in it to report. I'm not planning on letting her anywhere near a weapon any time soon, much less a 'Mech, but I think we might hang onto her for a bit. If she starts to relax as time goes by that could tell us something. Or if she starts to tense up over time, that will tell us something else."
Darius shrugged. "It's your call Commander. Just be careful."