The Splitting (The Matsumoto Trilogy Book 2)

by Sarah K. L. Wilson

  Hack flechette computer, I told my implant. The chips in the guns were super basic, like a comm device, so I figured it was worth a shot.

  Forced pair successful.

  Lock gun to my bio signature, I ordered, remembering that tasty little tidbit from practicing with Edward.

  ‘If you can lock it to you then it doesn’t matter that you don’t kill people, because at least that’s one weapon that won’t be killing you.’

  I owed a lot to my original guardian. Like always when I remembered him, I breathed a silent prayer for his soul. Rest in Peace.

  Gun locked.

  Too bad I didn’t have the ability to lock firearms I wasn’t holding or this whole nonsense would be moot.

  “We should probably get inside,” I said, ignoring his implied command.

  “Leave the gun,” Sammy said, gesturing with his own firearm.

  “I think I’ll take it with me,” I said casually.

  “Relinquish the firearm or it will be taken from you,” Sammy said. He settled himself more firmly on his feet, like he was about to take a shot at me.

  “I think your boss wants to talk to me. Why don’t you let him?” I said, gambling.

  “I don’t have a boss,” Sammy muttered, but after a glance at Driscoll he headed into the shuttle.

  “I already know everything I need to know,” Driscoll said, but his eyes held a threat.

  If he thought I wouldn’t use the gun because I was a Matsumoto he should have thought again. I’d gotten over that little stricture before, and I could do it again.

  I went into the shuttle holding my firearm without waiting to see what he said. Fortune favors the bold. It was not as I had expected.

  It was brightly lit and modern, but it was a small transport shuttle, not one of the larger ones. There was a main passenger compartment and a window into a smaller pilot compartment. The twelve prisoners, two marines, three from this flight, and me, added up to eighteen living souls. I considered Driscoll and his cronies. Correction, eighteen humans. I realized suddenly that the window to the pilot compartment was smeared red with drying blood – on the inside. Any guesses on what happened to the pilots? Correction. Eighteen breathing creatures.

  All eighteen were packed into the shuttle like pickles in a jar, and as we walked through the air-sealed hatch, we walked right into a fight. When voices are elevated, tensions rise. When voices are elevated in a space where people are crammed elbow to elbow and hip to hip, it’s worse than tense. Already I was worried that this side of the window was going to end up equally bloody.

  “With Maxwell dead, I am in charge,” Mutambi was shouting at Ian and Ch’ng.

  They stood side by side with arms crossed over their chests and breath masks dangling.

  “There’s twelve of us and only two of you!” Ch’ng responded.

  “Numbers don’t count. We are the authorities here.”

  “Shut up, the lot of you!” Shumner said, “This is our shuttle and Mister Driscoll will tell you what to do.”

  “You are all prisoners of the Blackwatch Empire. As the ranking marine present I am officially taking you into custody and I will ensure your safe return to Major Reynolds at the colony,” Mutambi shouted over what was becoming a din of voices. His face was growing darker and his fists were clenched.

  “We’re colonists of Baldric,” Ian said, “And Ch’ng and I represent the colonists.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from our original contingent. I wondered how they had got to the point where Ian was the official leader of us all without ever discussing it. Maybe it was a case of any port in a storm.

  “You do? You’re in charge here?” Driscoll asked, his normal tone cutting through the much louder shouting.

  “Yes,” said Ian, taking a tiny step forward to make his point. Ch’ng moved in to cover his left shoulder, seeming fine with ceding the leadership to Ian.

  I was impressed. The McIsaac blood was showing through. Ian had his father’s skills at inspiring a crowd. It was too bad that through Ead’s mistakes - and mine too, let’s not forget – he’d never be a planetary leader like he was born to be.

  “Did you see those men in the cockpit?” Driscoll asked. “Go take a look.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow in response, not moving.

  “They thought they were in charge,” Driscoll said, his face grim.

  “Do you see me looking worried?” Ian asked. He rolled one shoulder in a cocky motion that suggested he’d be happy to strike the first blow.

  “No,” Driscoll said with a slight smile.

  “Well, you should all be worried,” Mutambi broke in. “The Major has ordered us to wait the night here and then resume course for the colony, at which time he will deal out justice where needed.”

  I wanted to look away; I was so embarrassed for Mutambi. He’d basically just shot himself in the foot with everyone here.

  “The Major’s orders? How did he order you so quickly?” Driscoll hissed. Ian’s eyes narrowed, too, and both were looking at Mutambi with murderous eyes.

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you!” Mutambi growled. I studied the ceiling. Man alive, how stupid was he? I guess that’s why he was the lowest rank possible.

  Driscoll pulled a sidearm, pointing it at Mutambi’s forehead.

  “Easy now,” I said quietly. Somehow it’s always a Matsumoto that has to work these things out.

  I leaned a shoulder forward and squeezed my body between them – one tiny sixteen-year-old in between three dangerous men.

  “He receives information from Command through his headpiece. This shuttle probably boosts his signal because his software can interface with it.”

  Ch’ng’s eyes narrowed as I spoke, and I tried not to frown. Oops. Tipped my hand a bit there. I turned to Mutambi.

  “Even with that link, all the rest of his unit and the colony we are heading to are a long way from here.”

  My implant map was reading us at almost ninety miles out, but I was already giving too much away without revealing to the whole shuttle that I had an exact map of the planet and knowledge of everyone’s location.

  “Besides which,” I turned to Ian, “We are losing numbers rapidly enough to shadows without turning on potential allies.”

  The murmurs and voices had lowered – thankfully – but I’d drawn more attention than I would have liked.

  “How do you know where Command is?” Private Mutambi asked.

  “We were ninety miles out at our crash site. It’s not hard to do the math,” I said. “We’re all marooned here.”

  Driscoll cursed.

  “We still need to settle on who makes decisions. We won’t get very far with three leaders,” Ian said, with a challenge in his voice. Ch’ng’s eyes were approving. I wondered why he let a man as young as Ian talk for him. Did his background in crime show him things that I couldn’t see?

  “No one is following you, colonist,” Mutambi said.

  “You’re out-manned and out-gunned,” Driscoll said quietly, and Mutambi’s mouth formed a hard line.

  “Then we’re still at an impasse, because none of us trusts you, old man,” Ian said to Driscoll.

  Driscoll chuckled.

  “This is what they used to call a ‘Mexican stand-off.’”

  “What’s a Mexican?” Mutambi asked.

  “It means we need another option,” Driscoll said.

  Ian looked around.

  “I’m only seeing three options here, mister.”

  “Then look down,” Driscoll said.

  Ian’s eyes found me somewhere at his chest level, still gripping my flesh-ripper.

  He cursed.

  “Lord, no. She’s already ruined my life once.”

  “Mine, too,” said Driscoll, to my surprise. “All the Matsumotos have.”

  “Then why her?”

  Driscoll shrugged. “None of us trusts her. She’s the odd one out. She won’t be partisan. And if she screws up we’ll just kill her and move on.”


  Boy, way to charm a girl. He must have them swooning in every port.

  “I can live with that,” Ian said, “If...”

  Driscoll cocked his head.

  “If I get to be the one to shoot her if she tanks things.”

  Driscoll grunted a laugh. “Private Mutambi?”

  “I don’t condone the shooting of colonists,” Mutambi said, sticking to the script.

  “And about the arrangement?”

  “Fine. Just as long as she sticks to what Command orders.”

  “Then we have an arrangement,” Driscoll declared.

  I could hear people breathing out as if they were trying to cause a carbon dioxide overload in the shuttle filters.

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose. The burden of command. Just what I never wanted.

  “We can’t go outside until light. Sleep if you can. Eat if you want to. We move out first light,” I said.

  No one objected, but tension was still in the air. I disentangled myself from the middle of the shuttle and took up a place near the door, curled around the flechette gun. It made me look weak, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want anyone snatching it. I needed a plan before light. Fortunately, we had a lot of time. There were at least 20 hours of dark left. They would be just super-awesome in a crowded transport shuttle. I wondered if there was a bathroom.

  Chapter Eleven

  I reviewed the map carefully for the first time since arriving on Baldric. Now that I was semi-responsible for choosing a route I’d need to think carefully. We were in a set of rocky hills. To the southeast was the canyon we crossed with the waterfall. The main group from our crash was to the northeast, separated from us by rough terrain and a wide river.

  Actually, now that I looked at it, our splinter group had been just unlucky enough to find the only possible path that would have brought us to where we were currently. There was no other path down into the canyon that I saw, and north of the waterfall the river was fast flowing and deep. There seemed to be no place to cross safely. Lucky us.

  The colony was north. A bridge, located a few kilometers south of the colony, was the only place where the others could cross the river. We could meet up with them there.

  How big was the colony? There was nothing available in my general databases or the shuttle’s databanks, which I queried. It had a flight path and location, but I already knew the location. It also had detailed colonist files, but those were encoded and locked. It was possible my implant could unlock them, given enough time, but it would only have info on Driscoll, Sammy and Schumner, and I was fairly certain I could figure out those three on my own.

  I was still too anxious and nervous to eat although those around me cracked open e-rations and dug in. They smelled extremely unappealing, and this was not my first long stint without food. It would weaken me eventually, but with my nervous personality I’d learned fairly early on that missing food for a few days wouldn’t hurt much.

  With the only possible plan decided in my mind, I tried to sleep. Around me others were doing the same, and someone even found a way to dim the shuttle lights. Might as well sleep while we could, not that I was expecting much since it was only a short time since I’d slept last. Amazingly, I drifted off.

  It was just like last time I went to sleep. I floated in the back of Roman’s head, unable to change things or speak to him, but watching life through his eyes like the most immersive video ever made.

  He was on another mission. He and his fellow marines were clad in black field uniforms and full assault gear. The blonde was giving them hand signals. They arranged themselves over a ventilation hatch and rolled out equipment in a synchronized dance born of training and unit cohesion. I was impressed by the professionalism they showed, especially compared to the ragtag group I was leading on Baldric.

  Roman was point man. I found myself stifling irritation. Why did they risk him first? He rappelled silently down a rope through the hatch and into a passageway that could be in a starship or a large building. Marines did practically all the Empire’s dirty work, and were constantly being used in all kinds of missions, so either one was possibility, although the lack of skinsuits suggested they were dirtside.

  He cleared the passage and waited for the next marine to join him. It was Blondie. She gave him some sort of hand signal, but her eyes blazed with emotion. Affection? Loyalty?

  A possessive pang shot through my emotions. He was mine. My Roman. My guardian. Not anymore, I reminded myself, and the life he had now was a better one. If he could live it and find a future without me, I should be happy. I thought I might be in love with Roman, and if that were true, shouldn’t I wish him the very best, no matter what that meant for me?

  Roman proceeded down the passage to a doorway. The rest of his fireteam filled the space behind him. He pulled a flash-bang out of his vest, opened the door and tossed it inside. I felt myself shy away from the bang, but Roman was cool. He followed it promptly into the room and trained his gun on the people on the floor. They were not damaged but covering ears and eyes from the explosive.

  The fireteam filled the room, fanning out.

  “Everyone stay down, and you will be spared,” Blondie ordered.

  I needed to learn her name.

  One of the marines strode to a console and started typing furiously. From where Roman was looking I assumed this was a lab of some kind. Scientific hardware was distributed on shelves and counters, and a few of the people on the floor wore lab coats. What could our marines be looking for here? Anything, really, now that I considered it. After all, we Matsumotos had been using the very best in biotech for the last few generations. Who knew how we got it. Maybe our own R&D people were supplemented by stolen information.

  “I have it,” the marine at the console said in a deep baritone.

  My eyes tried to focus on the prisoners. Roman wasn’t really looking at them, so it was hard, but something about them was bothering me. One had a synthetic arm. Another one had an upgraded biotech eye. Typical People’s Freehold body mods. Why did they bother me? One of the men without a lab coat or tech upgrades had a tattoo poking out of his sleeve. I realized instantly what it was. He was a Free Radical, the extremist arm of the People’s Freehold (if anything could be considered more extreme than carving up your own body to “improve” it).

  Roman! Watch out!, I tried to call through our link, but with light-years between us I couldn’t send any sort of transmission.

  The man reached for his hand with the other. Both hands looked like normal human hands until he twisted one 360°.

  I panicked, screaming into the implant.

  Roman! Roman! Watch out! His hand. It’s a weapon!

  I remembered the top secret briefing about the People’s Freehold Suicide Tech. Somehow I had thought – or maybe just hoped – I would never see it in person.

  Roman’s eyes shot like lightning to the man, focused on the hand, fired his nettlegun into the man’s head as his “hand” popped off and the other reached for a tiny touch screen in the wrist. His hand dropped, lifeless.

  He’d heard me! Had he heard me? How could that be?

  “What do you think you’re doing, Aldrin?” Blondie yelled.

  Roman pointed wordlessly to the dead man.

  Someone whistled. “Woooeeee, Aldrin! Saved our butts. Nice eye!”

  I felt proud that for once I’d contributed something to him. After all the tight spots he’d gotten me out of it was good to do something in return.

  “How did you know?” Blondie asked, her sculpted face puzzled.

  “Who cares how he knew, Sarge, he’ll be promoted for this!” the whistler said.

  Blondie nodded, but she still looked confused.

  I faded back to my own world and opened my eyes. I felt a knot in my stomach that didn’t have anything to do with my situation on Baldric, and I found myself blinking back tears. I missed having a partner. Going solo wasn’t all that fun.

  I frowned at my own stupid girly emotions and acce
ssed the video logs. I wasn’t going back to sleep. All that had for me was heartache. Instead, I might as well make myself useful. Most of the others were asleep, but I curled up gingerly, wrapping my arms around my knees and stared intently at the video readout, allowing it to overlay my full vision.

  The science went on and on. I was beginning to understand it since I’d been watching for so long. It started to get interesting when they talked about meeting ‘residents’ of the planet. They didn’t describe them and I got the impression that another group of scientists had been assigned the role of liaising with the local inhabitants. It was irritating to have holes in the data – especially when this was the data I was the most interested in. What they did say was that the natives were difficult to communicate with.

  “We’ve developed a technology to help us communicate with them,” Dr. Sanderson was saying. She was a greying woman with a severe face, and she was so stereotypically a “scientist” that I almost yawned. “We’ve adapted it into nano-bots, which, when ingested, will write pathways in the brain. We’ve laced the food supplies with the bots, and will recommend that all future colonists have their e-rats laced with Compound VX-7. This should enable us to break the communications barrier so we can determine why they have been so opposed to subterranean exploration.”

  Interesting. So, somehow the aliens had shown that they didn’t like humans going beneath their soil. And they were communicating in some way, but it was a way we couldn’t understand, so the scientists had resorted to neural pathway routing via nano-bots. It was old tech, and dangerous. The pathways, once made, could have untold effects on the human brain.

  We’d thought that this “pill learning technology” as it had been dubbed, was the future. It was only after people began popping pills to learn everything from university courses to how to manage their personal finances that we realized the dangers. A program that could instantly have you speaking another language might seem like magic at first, but when you suddenly couldn’t speak Standard, or even speak at all, it was a curse.