Chapter 16: THE DONNAGER
The Donnager filled the viewport like a metal moon.
She was massive—the flagship of the Martian Congressional Republic Navy, bristling with railguns and torpedo tubes, her hull marked by the red and gray livery of Mars. A battleship built to destroy fleets, to project power across the solar system, to remind Earth and the Belt that the Martian Congressional Republic was not to be trifled with.
And she had come for us.
"Shuttle Knight, this is MCRN Donnager." The voice on the comm was crisp, professional, utterly without warmth. "You are ordered to reduce velocity and prepare for docking. Failure to comply will result in weapons lock. Acknowledge."
Holden keyed the response. "Donnager, this is Knight. We acknowledge and comply. We are survivors of the Canterbury and request—"
"Your status has been noted. Docking coordinates are being transmitted. Donnager out."
The channel closed. Alex adjusted our trajectory, bringing the shuttle in line with the approach vector they'd specified. None of us spoke. There wasn't much to say.
We'd broadcast evidence of the Canterbury's murder to the entire solar system, implicated Martian technology in the attack, and now we were about to be guests—or prisoners—aboard the most powerful warship in the MCRN fleet.
The next few hours would determine whether we lived or died.
The docking collar sealed with a metallic clang that echoed through the shuttle. Pressurization confirmed. Atmosphere equalized. The Knight's hatch cycled open to reveal a squad of Martian marines in full power armor, their weapons not quite pointed at us but definitely ready.
"Canterbury survivors." The voice came from the squad leader, her faceplate reflecting our faces back at us. "You will exit the shuttle in single file. You will keep your hands visible at all times. You will comply with all instructions without argument. Is this understood?"
Holden stepped forward first. "We're cooperating. We're the victims here."
"That determination has not been made. Exit the shuttle."
We filed out into the Donnager's cavernous hangar bay. The scale was staggering—I'd seen warships before, in my old life, but nothing like this. The hangar alone could have held a dozen shuttles our size. Beyond it, through massive internal doors, I could see corridors stretching into the ship's depths, crew members moving with the purposeful efficiency of a military vessel at alert status.
The marines formed up around us, escorting us through those corridors in a formation that was technically protective but felt distinctly like custody. Other crew members passed us, their expressions ranging from curious to hostile. We were famous now—the survivors who'd accused Mars of murder. Not exactly welcome company.
Our destination was a detention block near the ship's center. Individual cells, each one barely large enough for a bunk and a toilet. The marines separated us without ceremony, assigning each person to a different room.
"Wait here," the squad leader said as I was guided into my cell. "Someone will come for you."
The door sealed behind me. The lock engaged with a solid thunk.
I was alone.
The cell was designed for functionality, not comfort. Metal walls, recessed lighting, a bunk that folded down from the wall. A small viewport showed only the corridor outside, currently empty. The air tasted recycled, processed, military.
I sat on the bunk and waited.
Time passed. Hours, maybe. Hard to tell without a chronometer. I used the time to assess my situation, to plan contingencies, to prepare for what I knew was coming.
The Donnager would be attacked. The same stealth ships that had killed the Canterbury would find her, would board her, would ultimately destroy her. Most of the crew would die. The survivors would escape on a frigate called the Tachi—a corvette that would later become the Rocinante.
I knew all of this. Couldn't change most of it. Could only position myself to survive and help the others survive.
The door opened.
A woman stepped inside—middle-aged, sharp-featured, wearing the uniform of a naval intelligence officer. Lieutenant's bars on her collar. A data tablet in her hands. Behind her, a technician wheeled in a piece of equipment I didn't recognize—something medical, maybe, with leads and sensors.
"I'm Lieutenant Lopez," the woman said. "I'll be conducting your interview. Please state your name for the record."
"Kwame. Maintenance technician, formerly of the Canterbury."
"Formerly." She tapped something on her tablet. "You were aboard the Canterbury for approximately two weeks before the incident. Prior to that, you worked on Tycho Station for four months. And before that, Ceres Station." Her eyes lifted to meet mine. "Your file is remarkably clean for someone who's spent time in Belt territory. No criminal record. No political affiliations. No unusual activities."
"I try to keep my head down."
"So I've noticed." She gestured to the technician, who began attaching sensors to my temples and wrists. "This is standard procedure. The equipment monitors physiological responses during questioning. It helps us verify the accuracy of statements."
A lie detector. Or something more sophisticated—Martian technology was advanced, and their interrogation techniques were rumored to be invasive.
I kept my expression neutral. "Ask your questions."
Lopez settled into a chair across from me, tablet ready. "Let's start with the Canterbury. How did you come to be aboard?"
"Answered a job posting. The previous maintenance tech got into a fight on Tycho, was cooling his heels in detention. The ship needed someone with my skills."
"And what skills are those?"
"System repair. Environmental maintenance. General mechanical work. The Canterbury was an old ship—she needed constant attention to keep running."
Lopez nodded, making notes. The questions continued—routine stuff at first, establishing timeline and background. Where was I during the distress call. Why did I volunteer for the shuttle mission. What did I observe on the Scopuli.
I answered truthfully where I could, carefully where I couldn't. The equipment hummed beside me, measuring heart rate and skin conductivity and whatever else Martian tech could read.
Then something changed.
Lopez leaned forward slightly, her eyes focusing with new intensity. "Tell me about your time on Ceres Station."
"Standard Belt work. Dock loading, mostly. Some maintenance contracts."
"And your relationships there? Associates? Friends?"
"A few acquaintances. No one significant."
She tapped her tablet. The equipment beside me emitted a soft tone—and then I felt it.
Pressure. Not physical—mental. Like someone pressing against a door I hadn't known existed. Questions forming in my head that weren't my own. What are you hiding? What do you know? Why don't you fit?
My defenses activated before I consciously recognized the intrusion. Walls rose—layers of mental architecture I'd only dimly sensed before. The pressure met resistance and recoiled.
Lopez's expression shifted. She looked at her tablet, then at the equipment, then at me.
"That's strange."
"What is?"
"Your readings." She turned the tablet so I could see—lines of data that meant nothing to me, but apparently meant something to her. "The neural response patterns are... inconsistent. Contradictory, even."
"Maybe the equipment is malfunctioning."
"This equipment doesn't malfunction." Her eyes narrowed. "I've conducted hundreds of interviews with this system. I've never seen readings like this."
I shrugged, keeping my voice casual despite the adrenaline coursing through me. "I'm just a maintenance tech, Lieutenant. I don't know anything about neural patterns."
She studied me for a long moment. I could see the wheels turning—suspicion forming, theories developing. But she had no evidence, no proof, nothing she could act on.
"That will be all for now," she said finally. "You'll remain in custody until we've completed our investigation."
The technician removed the sensors. Lopez gathered her equipment. At the door, she paused.
"One more thing, Kwame. During the Canterbury's destruction, you were the first to suggest evasive action. The first to identify the sensor contacts as ships rather than interference. The first to respond in the aftermath." Her voice was carefully neutral. "That's unusual behavior for a maintenance technician."
"Like I said. I've seen some things."
"Mm." She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes. "We'll speak again."
The door sealed behind her.
I lay back on the bunk and stared at the ceiling, processing what had just happened.
Mental shielding. That was real. Not just the dormant potential I'd noticed during the OPA interrogation—active defense, rising to meet an intrusion I hadn't consciously recognized. My mind had protected itself automatically, instinctively.
Which meant I had another ability developing. Another piece of whatever had happened during transmigration, manifesting when I needed it most.
The headache hit a few minutes later—a dull throb behind my eyes, the price of pushing back against whatever Lopez's equipment had tried to do. I closed my eyes and breathed through it, letting the pain fade to background noise.
The Donnager's systems hummed around me. Massive engines, life support for thousands, weapons systems capable of destroying cities. This ship was a monument to human engineering, to Martian discipline, to the particular arrogance of military power.
And somewhere out in the black, stealth ships were closing on her position.
I counted the time by heartbeats. By breaths. By the subtle vibrations of a warship preparing for whatever came next.
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