Masters of War

by Michael A. Stackpole

  DropShip Jaeger, Outbound

  Yed Posterior

  Former Prefecture IX, Republic of the Sphere

  16 January 3137

  Anastasia Kerensky stood in the DropShip’s security center with her arms folded over her chest. Ian Murchison had joined her, less because he wanted to see what was happening than to watch her reaction to it. He already knows how I will react, he just refuses to believe it.

  Four different monitors were centered on the same image: a slender blond man in a stark holding cell. He’d been stripped of all clothing. The dark circles under his eyes gave him a haunted look. His hunched shoulders and the way his head jerked toward any sound reduced him to an animal.

  A tired animal. A suspicious animal.

  Ian shook his head. “Sleep deprivation, dehydration, starvation, the physical abuse. I fail to understand, and as a physician I most strongly protest this treatment.”

  She said nothing, but raised an eyebrow in his direction.

  “Aside from the fact that we know torture never produces reliable information . . .”

  “Do we actually know that, Ian?”

  “Yes, and you know it. Most covert agents have a system of safeguards in place such that if they are out of contact with a handler, it is assumed they have been compromised and any ongoing operations are scrubbed. Anyone can hold out for a day, perhaps two, and that is all that is required to have their network account for their disappearance.” Murchison shook his head. “He has held out for two days, but that is immaterial. He has nothing to give us. Moreover, that is something else you know, Colonel. If you actually thought he had useful information you would use psychoactive drugs on him, bust his mind open and sift the mush for useful tidbits.”

  She smiled at him. “Your conclusion, then, is that there is nothing to gain from this harsh treatment.”

  “Oh no, I will not fall into some trap—though the gambit was cunningly offered.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What is it you are trying to do?”

  “Break him down.”

  “Why?”

  Anastasia pointed at the screens. “That is Alaric Wolf. He was important enough to be brought to Terra during Victor Davion’s funeral. He was given charge of the Yed Posterior invasion and proved rather resourceful in his opposition.”

  The doctor half smiled. “The declaration of victory was audacious, no doubt about it. But he also admitted defeat when you flooded the tunnels below the city. He surrendered, then ordered his elementals out of the caves in the volcano. He saved many lives on both sides.”

  “Very true.” She nodded, then smiled as she watched him shift in his sleep on the cell floor. “You remember what his troops looked like. Haggard and beaten. They had been defeated.”

  “You suggest he had not been?”

  “Not even close.” Anastasia raised her chin. “He gave me his men. Their fate was in his hands, as was the fate of my people. For him it was no defeat because he had succeeded in at least some of what he came to Yed Posterior to do. He had looted the world, so his continued possession of it really was unnecessary.”

  She reached out and tapped the security technician on the shoulder. “How long has he been asleep?”

  “Twenty minutes, Colonel.”

  “Good. Wake him up. Cold water. Then have him interrogated.”

  “Which program of questions?”

  “The Victor Davion set. Make it about Strana Mechty.”

  “Confirmed.” The tech made the call to the interrogators.

  The hatch to the detention cell burst inward. Alaric sat up sluggishly, then flew back against the wall as a high-powered water jet caught him square in the chest. At first he fought against it; holding his arms up, but the interrogator shifted it to his belly. Alaric folded around it; then a blast to his knees dropped him. The water shoved him into a corner where he curled into a fetal ball.

  He lay that way as water drained out the center of the floor. His body shook, but if it was from sobbing or shivering against the cold, Anastasia could not tell.

  Nor did she really care.

  “How much of this do you think he can take, Doctor?”

  “He is at his physical limits. I could examine him if you wish.”

  Anastasia shook her head. “You will get your chance soon, but only after he is broken. He is a warrior, but the Clans treat their warriors very specially. He came to me expecting to be made a bondsman. That would have showed that I valued him.”

  “He would be useful to have as one of our own.”

  “Not yet, Ian. Possibly never.” She nodded at the screen as two burly men dragged him from the cell. “He is a Wolf, an alpha even. But we already have an alpha. He is also flawed. He believes himself to be invincible. If you believe that, if you refuse to believe in the very real possibility that you could be defeated, you never plan sufficiently to preclude that scenario.”

  “And you intend to teach him this folly, which will make him better and even more deadly?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And then what will you do with him?”

  She smiled. “I will give him back to the Wolves.”

  Ian stared at her. “Why would you do that? They are quite deadly enough.”

  “But it ensures that he will rise among them, come to lead them. I want that.” Anastasia Kerensky nodded solemnly. “Here he will learn to defeat all his enemies. All of them save one. Me. He will be ignorant of that fact, but I will know it. Consider it insurance for our future.”

  * * *

  Alaric tumbled into his cell and didn’t even make an attempt to control his fall. He landed hard and skidded, burning flesh on his flank and thigh. He could feel pain, but it remained distant. He reached for it, clung to it, for as uncomfortable as it was, it was the only thing that seemed real in his world.

  Nothing made sense. When he surrendered he had expected better treatment. He worked with Kerensky’s subordinates to bring his people in and to save lives. He knew the mercenaries would appreciate that. Not only did it prevent people from dying, but it saved on equipment and ammunition loads. If Anastasia Kerensky was going to cite economics as justification for a lack of honor, he could play that game.

  So he had. He expected, in exchange, to be treated as befit his rank—which was the equal of hers—but her opinion differed. Once his troops had surrendered, elementals had dragged him away without a word. Alaric was taken to the Overlord-class DropShip, stripped, holographed, weighed, measured, had samples taken, and then had been tossed naked into a bare metal cell.

  The lights never went out in his cell, and the four dark dots in the corner hid cameras. That much Alaric was sure of. He’d heard the cameras whir. He was sure of that, too. I am sure, I am. He’d been given no food, and the only water had come in what he had sucked up when his keepers hosed him down. He wasn’t even given toilet facilities; his waste washed down the same drain.

  So many things he wasn’t sure of. He had no idea how long he had been a prisoner, though his beard had not grown out much, nor were his fingernails any longer. But he could not discount that he’d been shaved when unconscious, and had his nails trimmed.

  You have had no sleep. That was another thing he was certain about. His limbs felt crafted of lead and his eyes itched as if his sockets had been stuffed with nettles. He’d gotten tired of fighting yawns and had no idea if he covered his mouth when he lost that fight. He wanted to. He tried to. He had no desire to lose track of manners and the other things that made him human because he distinctly felt them slipping away.

  Slipping away with my identity. That was the most disconcerting part of what had been happening to him. His interrogators would blast him with water, then drag him from the cell to an interrogation room. They bound him to a chair. A strap went around his forehead so he’d keep his head up. They attached electrodes at the small of his back, one over each sciatic nerve. If he fell asleep . . .

  He’d only done that once.

  The
y would make holographic images hover in the air in front of him. They would tell him that he was watching himself, but he knew that wasn’t true. One set was of a man named Jaime Wolf. Alaric watched footage of Wolf in combat, then Wolf at public gatherings, and then he would be asked about the military strength of the Draconis Combine and the death of his brother. He would be asked intricate questions dealing with the management of a mercenary unit, and when he refused to answer, they asked more questions, louder, building and building until he expected more shocks.

  Then they would release him and toss him back into his cell. He would sleep a little, just long enough to dream about the material he’d been shown, and then the water would hit him again and he would be dragged back. The next time it would be Kai Allard-Liao fighting in some gladiatorial games or Hanse Davion getting married. I was getting married to my grandmother.

  “No!” Alaric slapped his hand against the deck. “No, that was not me.”

  No, not me, because I am Victor Davion. The last set of holographs had been the worst. Images of Victor Davion had flashed past from when he was just a child to his time through the military. I saw my body crisscrossed with scars. The sword scars. And then they wanted to know about Strana Mechty.

  The invasion of the Clan homeworld was something Alaric knew well. All Clanners knew it for the tragedy it was. Tragedy and outrage. Victor had brought a fleet. I told them, I told them everything so they could save us. But they did not believe me. They laughed at me.

  Alaric rolled onto his back and covered his face with his hands. This cannot be happening to me. They dare not do this to me. They cannot do this to me. I am a god!

  He began to laugh and continued because he was too exhausted to stop. The only way he could stop was to start crying and he refused to do that. Gods do not cry. He fought to keep a hysterical note out of his laughter, but failed. He heard it, but chose to ignore it, because to acknowledge it would make him cry.

  Gods do not cry, but I am not much of a god. As much as he wanted to find solace in memories of striding across a battlefield implacable and invincible, he could only see himself from the outside. He remained huddled and small, naked and cold. With a casual misstep a ’Mech would smear him along the ground and the pilot would never even notice.

  I am the god of fools. Yet the moment that idea entered his mind, he knew he had arrogated too much divinity. I am the god of nothing.

  He shook, less with dying laughter than a shiver. Why are they doing this? What do they want? How can I please them? How can I make them stop?

  He rolled onto his side, slowly drew his legs up to his chest and hugged them tightly. He had tried to comply with what they wanted, but nothing made sense. Nothing was real. There was no right answer.

  I have done everything. What do they want? Another shiver—his muscles rippled but didn’t feel like part of him. Then he realized what he hadn’t done yet.

  I have not yet cried.

  Hope burst in his chest. He flopped onto his back again and just let himself go. Strong sobs wracked him. Tears rolled from his eyes and his mouth opened, baring white teeth. He screamed in anguish, filling it with all his frustration and confusion.

  Only distantly did he hear the clank of the hatch being opened. He wanted to smile, but his body would not obey his will. Soon. You will stop soon. You have won. You have won.

  Then the cold water lifted him from the floor and smashed him against the back wall. As he huddled in the corner, water washed into his open mouth. He swallowed, tasting tears, bitter tears.

  And knew there would be many more to swallow.

  17

  Overton, Baxter

  Former Prefecture IX, Republic of the Sphere

  18 January 3137

  The weight pressed down on Verena’s chest. She couldn’t move and a warning buzzer pulsed through her head. She was facedown and could see nothing. Blackness. The Mad Cat is going to stomp me.

  The buzzing grew more insistent. She clawed against the ground, and it came away in her hands. Her fingers tightened around a thin sheet of it. She ripped a hand free and pushed off, flopping over onto her back.

  Cool air hit her, turning her sweat into an icy coat. Her eyes snapped open, and then she looked to the right. She slapped her datapad, killing the alarm she’d set. She pulled herself up in the bed and her head bumped off the headboard.

  Good thing it is padded. She leaned back, then untangled the sheet from around her legs and drew it up to her neck. The nightmare had been horrible, but she wasn’t completely certain she was awake yet. This cannot be real.

  The Regal Crown Hotel was the best Overton had to offer. Within the Badgers it was the place most warriors said they’d go after winning a lottery. By the standards of other worlds it might not have been all that great, but there wasn’t a resident on Baxter who would have refused to be crowned for a night.

  On seeing the suite she’d been given, her first impression was plush. Velvet curtains hung everywhere and matched the thick, burgundy carpet. The overstuffed chairs and couch were more inviting than any billet she’d known as a MechWarrior. She could have fit her whole barracks room into the bathroom, and was fairly certain the bathtub was roomier than her ’Mech’s cockpit.

  She shook her head. She and the southern contingent had remained in the caves awaiting word on how the fight had gone up north. The night before she was brought to Overton they’d heard that the Skondia Rangers and the Beasts had crushed a Clan Star, completing the liberation of the planet. That resulted in a lot of celebrating in the caves, and that night she’d gone to sleep in a bedroll hoping the fire wouldn’t go out before she woke up.

  The next day a Rangers’ helicopter arrived at her headquarters. Abbie Dannik took command of the Badgers, and Captain Verena and Lieutenant Kennerly were invited to return to Overton. Verena had gotten the distinct impression that she’d not be returning to the Badgers, though she couldn’t immediately put a finger on why.

  Kennerly had been most helpful in identifying the problem. “You have two things going against you. First, it takes no stretch of the imagination to blame you for Colonel Bradone’s death. Major Peres inherits the unit based on the partnership deal when it was set up, but he has a problem. Because of your victory, you’re more popular than he is. He really is nothing more than a logistics genius, so the warriors would be happy to follow you—save, of course, those who think you got Bradone killed.”

  He added that was pretty much everyone in the unit, which did nothing to mitigate her feeling of dread. He then pointed out that “while your plan here did kill off a Clan Star and inflict damage on a DropShip, it could easily be seen as exceeding your précis for harassment prior to the arrival of reinforcements. You would argue that since the Clans were not coming out of their stronghold, harassment was impossible, but you risked much. That you gained much will mean nothing because you could have lost big. Anvil forces are not supposed to take those risks.”

  She scrubbed her hands over her face. Kennerly had a point, but refusing to allow warriors to fight and take advantage of the enemies’ weaknesses was to neuter them. She fully understood the risks of her operation, but she didn’t see them as risks. She knew she would succeed, and she had.

  The second she made that declaration to herself, she knew she was lying. She had not known. She had calculated and hoped. She had projected best-case scenarios and clung to them. While things had gone better than anyone realistically could have expected—and she could point to the reasons why—the fact remained that they very easily could have gone much worse.

  The Mad Cat could have done much more damage to her troops than he had. After he downed her ’Mech he split his fire and took two other ’Mechs out of the fight. If he had not concentrated on her with his first shots, but split his fire then, he could have taken out a full lance. And had her lance not gotten lucky, he’d not have been put down for a much longer time.

  We would all be dead, and he would be here in this bed.

 
Verena shook her head vehemently. “That is nonsense, and you know it.” Her ambush had been classic. She had read the Clan leader perfectly. He got too focused on her and her troops to imagine she had set a trap. That left him vulnerable and she had exploited that vulnerability. He’d have done the same to her, and if she had fallen for it, her command would be dead.

  “But they are not, and that is why I am here.” She tossed back the thick comforter and padded across lush carpet to the bathroom. She shielded her eyes against the harsh light as she flicked the switch, then stepped into the glass-walled shower. She turned it on as hard and hot as she could stand. She allowed herself the luxury of a long soak, enjoying the water’s sting and the way it made her pale flesh glow rosy.

  Best of all, concentrating on the heat, breathing the steam and the lavender scent of the soap, she forgot earthly concerns for a little while. She sought that peace, both as an escape from battle and her dream, and as a respite from Kennerly’s mind games.

  Clean and relaxed, she emerged from the shower, dried herself on towels thicker than the barracks carpet, and dressed. She’d come north with nothing but the clothes on her back and had had no time to visit the Badgers’ headquarters. The hotel’s concierge had eyed her up and down and said he would take care of everything.

  He’d been good to his word. While she’d slept, or while she showered, her closet and wardrobe had been filled with clothes of the appropriate size and even of a style she liked. She wasn’t girly by any stretch of the imagination, but the concierge had avoided picking wholly mannish clothes. Conservative business suits of a dark color with blue blouses the color of her eyes formed the majority of her wardrobe. He’d even supplied lingerie that had more frills and lace than she would normally have chosen, but she actually liked how it looked and especially felt when she put it on.

  She finished dressing by the time the second alarm went off. She killed it, scooped up the datapad and headed down to the hotel lobby. There the concierge stood beaming beside Kennerly. The man was obviously pleased at how she looked, and it took Kennerly a couple of seconds to recognize her.