The Omcri Matrix

by Deborah Chester

  As soon as word of the Kublai’s abduction reached Drugh, those inflammatory idiots might decide to attack the city, providing they could get through the planetary defenses. Or, mere probable, the Kanta priests might start a search aside from the ceeps’. It would take only one hint, only one slip from his servants to bring everything down.

  Wob sat up, rubbing his skull with his knuckles. He reached out for the intercom, then pulled back. It was useless to disturb Jillian again. She was already angry at him. If he woke her twice in one night, she might not speak to him for weeks. He sighed and switched off the suspensor field, sinking gently down to the cushioned floor. Maneuvering his bulk upright, he grunted and threw on a robe before padding out of his suite in the northern wing. Lights flashed on in startled illumination ahead of him as he made his way up into the central portion of the house.

  The Kublai, a mere slip of a boy, lay in Jillian’s laboratory on a white slab, smiling in his drugged sleep. His ruddy complexion had paled to an unhealthy pink, and his cheeks had sunk in slightly, but otherwise he looked fine to Wob. A wide wristband of gold set with emeralds glittered on one slim wrist. Wob examined it, mentally calculating its worth on the open market, and snorted. Jillian had a boxful of trinkets worth far more.

  “May the breath of Hyata wither the flesh from your bones!”

  Startled by that venomous whisper, Wob jerked around and knocked a tray of beakers to the floor. The crash echoed through the sterile room, and one of the guards outside poked his head in. Wob waved angrily at him.

  “Get the physician.”

  The guard vanished, and Wob glared at the man stuffed and shackled inside a specimen cage. Bessam’s fine clothes hung on him in shreds, and the lines of rank painted on his face were smeared across his torn cheek and mixed with dried blood. He glared back at Wob with bloodshot eyes.

  “You are the one behind this,” he rasped in a cracked voice ruined from swallowing strifer fire. “May worms consume your sperm, you great mountain of filth!”

  Wob’s eyes narrowed. He stepped up to the cage and bent slightly to peer inside. “The drug was not supposed to wear off.”

  Bessam loosed a bitter laugh, then coughed harshly. “I am sworn to the protection of the Kublai. Who will watch over His Glory if I sleep?”

  Wob frowned, angry at this foul-up. He could be identified now. And this furious little scrap did not look like the sort whose silence could be bought. Still, he might try.

  “No harm will come to you—”

  “Harm? Hah! Do not all my living parts burn inside from what I have breathed this day? Have I not seen my Kublai defiled by the touch of violent hands and by the intrusion of chemicals into the Sacred Body? Am I not cramped into torture by this imprisonment in a cage for an animal, so that my limbs scream and my organs die from being crushed? I have soiled myself, and I suffer thirst. And you wish to speak platitudes unto me? Begone, fat thing!” He spat fiercely.

  Wob jerked back, one broad hand shaking as it drew out a cloth to dab at the stain on his robe. He did not turn his head as the physician came hurrying in.

  “You erred, Toine,” he said curtly, his eyes burning down into Bessam’s rebellious face.

  The physician exclaimed in exasperation. “I do not understand this. The effects of mexabenthol are well documented. He should not be—”

  “But he is!” shouted Wob. “Check this one.” He pointed at the Kublai. “Make sure there are no more mistakes. And get him ready for travel. Guards!” He moved toward the door while the physician hastily seized the Kublai’s limp wrist.

  “Sir!”

  Wob’s angry eyes probed the noncommittal ones of the guard. “I want a lytcar, unmarked, ready to fly out within the hour. Take Toine and his patient to my lodge on Lilliput. Keep them there until I send you further instructions. Make sure Toine understands clearly that if the Kublai wakes up, the doctor will be Ishut meat.”

  The guard grinned. “Sir! And the other one?”

  Wob’s lips clamped together. “Kill Bessam al-zk. I don’t care how. And put him through city disposal. It’ll take the ceeps weeks to find all the pieces.”

  By then, sleep was completely impossible. He watched dawn break over the sleeping city from his observation dome atop the villa, his eyes brooding and resentful as he stared north toward his empire lying beyond the gilt-banded horizon. He had carved his fortune with sweat, daring, and a good gambler’s instinct. No one else ran amusement parks equal to his. No one else could draw in the crowds like his attractions. It didn’t matter that the Directors of Playworld looked down their noses at his humble origins as an engineer and leased him the bleakest, least favored continent on the planet. He had made his parks desirable to the galaxy just the same, and even the Directors could not complain of their share of his profit margin.

  One last safety infraction, and all of it would be gone. Forfeited right into the hands of the Directors, to be leased to someone else. Damn those superstitious Ishuts and their inability to keep their minds on their work! And damn the Kanta! That cult was the real root of his problems. He had accepted its interference thus far, despite the money it cost him to meet the priests’ demands for the workers. But he would not accept the loss of his empire.

  The sun lifted itself over the horizon, a vast brazen ball spilling rays of light over the domed top of Beros, casting fantastic shadows through the fabled lava canyons south of the city. Wob pushed away from the balcony and returned inside to summon his assistant. By the time Ezbell’s lytcar landed on the grounds, Wob had seated himself on the garden terrace with his breakfast before him. He watched critically as a drone dropped live scammions into boiling water there at the table and fished them out seconds later to arrange upon his plate.

  “Ezbell,” he said curtly, not looking up from his observation of this process. The least mistake made the scammions too tough to eat. “I want you to arrange another incident for me.”

  Ezbell paled and nervously slipped a green tablet into his mouth. “Indeed, sir?”

  “You recall the infamous Kanta ruins? We toured the opening of the Archives last spring.”

  “Yes,” said Ezbell warily, sitting down on the other side of the table and shaking his head as the drone started to bring him a plate. “The city is extensive…a remarkable site of lost culture.”

  “Quite remarkable,” said Wob coldly. “Hire a demolition team.”

  “Sir?”

  “Blow up those ruins. Especially the temple foundation. And don’t spare the Archives.”

  Ezbell blinked. With his domed head and lashless eyes, he looked skinned and stupid. But of course, he was neither. Wob tried to be patient while Ezbell struggled to master once again his Ecletian heritage of perpetual shock over human violence.

  “Sir, the ruins are…ruined already.”

  “I want whatever is standing toppled. I want dust made of those stones. I don’t care about heritage or archaeological loss. I don’t want that place left in existence. Is that clear?”

  “Quite clear,” said Ezbell faintly and stood up. “How soon do you want this done?”

  “Early. Now. Before tourists or researchers or whoever is stupid enough to spend time down there burrowing around with superstitious cult rituals shows up at the place. There’s no point in having a lot of innocent people killed.” Wob’s thick fingers gripped the edge of the table. “Mind, I don’t care if a few less priests exist in the world.”

  “Understood.” Ezbell blinked in calculation while one boneless hand nervously smoothed the front of his pleated vesture. “It should be relatively simple to locate an implementation team of small scruple. I shall relay instructions immediately.”

  “Good.” Wob smiled for the first time all morning. “Also, about that merger with the Delex Company. I don’t think we should jump too quickly—Yes, S9, what is it?”

  “Forgive intrusion, sir,” chimed the drone, which bore the markings of one of Jillian’s personal servants. “Mistress not found in suite.” />
  “Oh?” Wob grunted. “She’s up early today. Now, Ezbell, about that—”

  “Forgive,” interrupted the drone. “Missing. Time for injection past. Cannot be found. Instructions please.”

  “What?” Wob rose to his feet with a violence that nearly overturned the table. For a moment worry squeezed his heart, then he shook himself. “Nonsense,” he said roughly, glaring at the drone. “She’s off in the conservatory perhaps. Search for her, idiot.”

  “Search completed. Not found. Personal lytcar gone from hangar.”

  “What? Damn the girl, what’s gotten into her now? All right, S9, I’ll deal with it. Ezbell, go on to the office; we’ll discuss the Delex people later. And if the bank reports any large requests from Jillian today, let me know. If she’s run away from home again, she’ll need funds. I’ve already closed off her accounts in Antares, so surely she’ll have enough sense not to go there again. F12! Call Commander Janal and report her missing. Tell him to close the space port. And, Ezbell, put a clamp on published ceep reports. If she turns up in some low-grade simulator house on the lower strata, I don’t want it publicized all over Beros. Damn her. I don’t need another psychological flare-up from her now. S9.” He stood on the terrace and shrugged his big shoulders with a helplessness that no amount of rage could dissipate. “Have you checked to see if she took anything? Does she have her medicines with her? Is R7 also missing?”

  “Will check.”

  S9 vanished, leaving Wob to close his eyes while the sun lifted over the trees and struck his back with heat.

  Three days later Jillian took her first shaky steps unaided by suspensors. “Look at me! Look at me!” she cried in delight, catching herself against a table in Anran’s laboratory. The gloomy chambers and rotting damp about her no longer mattered. She was sore all over, and every beat of her heart caused her pain, but it was beating unaided for the first time in her life. The hope of a normal life was finally becoming real. She turned to Anran, her face glowing.

  “This is wonderful! I’m going to walk back to you now.” She launched herself away from the support of the table, and carefully negotiated the ten steps across the room to where Anran stood watching, his white face expressionless as usual. She held out her hand to him, laughing in her triumph. He guided her to a chair equipped with monitoring equipment.

  “Rest now,” he said. “Unnecessary strain is against the purpose.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. The Omcri had not approached her again since that horrible violation of her mind. She refused to think about the creature or what she had done by betraying her father to it. The rewards of Anran’s incredible surgical skills justified any action she had taken. Soon she would be whole, and then she would leave this boring planet for the exciting life she deserved. She drew in an eager breath. “Anran, how soon can you operate again? You said you would be able to replace my mechanical organs with real ones, but—”

  “It will be done as promised,” he said tonelessly. “In—”

  A distant boom shook the walls and ceiling, causing a damp, scabrous patch to fall to the floor near her. Jillian looked at Anran in alarm. “What was that?”

  But he was already walking away. She struggled out of the chair. “Anran!”

  A second explosion, this one very close, threw her to the floor. Dazed, she pulled herself up, her new, still-fragile heart pounding. The floor was vibrating beneath her. She heard a loud crack, and a wall crashed in a cloud of dust that choked her.

  “Anran!” she screamed, coughing and unable to see. She crouched, helpless and panic-stricken as the floor continued to shift. Desperately she started crawling forward on her hands and knees, sobbing with fear, and nearly suffocated in the dust. More stone crashed about her, half burying her legs. Screaming from the pain, she tried to drag herself free, but she was caught. She twisted desperately, crying out at the cruel injustice of an earthquake just when life was so close within her grasp.

  “Please,” she sobbed, falling back weakly. “No. No! Wob! Father, help me!”

  But the roof collapsed over her in deafening thunder, raining down stone and rubble that crushed and buried her beneath the endless weight of a fallen city destroyed once again, and for Jillian at last there remained only the long, cold nothingness of death.

  Chapter Five

  The world shimmered beneath water, sometimes shadow cool and serene, other times sparkling with diamond skips of sunshine. The Ranger lay propped up on wadded tent remains and watched the girl frowning as she wove thorn-stripped vines into some kind of net. She was unaware of his scrutiny, but then it seemed hardly the observant form of study his instructors had drilled into him so long ago. He floated back and away, sometimes seeing her as she sat cross-legged on the broad tree branch with queer balloon-faced animals gibbering in the branches overhead, and sometimes seeing companions of other days and other worlds.

  The tree itself was very peculiar. He wondered if it was indeed vegetation or a constructed edifice. The branch supporting both of them possessed a breadth of at least three meters jutting out from a wall of a trunk. It was hollow, he thought, for he often heard creatures scrabbling about inside when he let his head rest against the smooth white bark. Vivid green leaves as broad as two hand spans and veined underneath in purple swayed in the hot air, giving off a pleasant scent whenever they rubbed together. He closed his eyes with a smile and dreamed of the cloved bread of his childhood.

  But all the while the girl occupied herself, restless as a caged cadet before a battle. She wove one net, and when she had finished it she began stripping more vines. She saved the thorns, which were as long as his finger, thick at the base, and curved into vicious barbed tips. Her build was small, but compact and strong. She moved with the competence of a born athlete. Her face was narrow beneath the cheekbones and framed by sleek black hair cropped off all around just below her ears. A thin, coiled braid perched coyly over one eye, but it did not have a feminine look to it. He watched her, fascinated by her queer yellow eyes which almost constantly changed color in betrayal of thought and mood, ranging from fiery amber to the chilliest blue-green. She had a way of suddenly lifting her head to the wind as though listening to the steady chuffing of search sleds beyond his range of hearing, and when she listened she grew completely still, not just in movement but in every facet of her being as though even her heartbeat ceased for a second.

  He could not remember her name, but he could remember that he had promised to kill her. He slept, waiting for the moment.

  Fifteen days later, the soul-piercing howl of a juubjb quavered through the air as the sun slipped behind the wall of trees, sending the last, almost horizontal rays of glittering gold motes dancing off leaf and branch before deep purple shadows lengthened along the rotting jungle floor. Wind, salt-tanged and cool, sliced through the oppressive air to strike Costa’s face. She drew in a sharp breath and abruptly hooked the hunting net on her belt before grasping a sawtooth vine and hauling herself up into a spreading tree. In its high branches, she still could not see through the tangled jungle, but the scent of the sea carried strongly on the air.

  The mournful juubjb called again, and a flock of carpals screamed across the sky, arrowing down in formation through the treetops, sending lesser fliers fluttering desperately out of the way. Costa’s ears fanned out slightly beneath her sweat-soaked hair, straining to hear beyond the clatter of the jungle. Did she imagine a low, cadenced booming or was it truly there?

  Pulling off her tunic, she knotted it around her waist by the sleeves and swung out on a vine with a lithe ripple of muscle. In minutes she had recaptured the rhythm of swinging from one tree to the next. Vines were scarce, thinning as the trees themselves shortened and untangled. She snaked out her line, using grappler and stakes with rapid precision. Her spirits rose with the exercise. After days of slogging along on the ground, pushing and fighting a way through the dense undergrowth while the major struggled behind her, to swing out was a delicious freedom.

  The jung
le ended suddenly, falling away in a sheer cliff to the rumbling sea below. Costa clung to a slender branch, her heart thudding and sweat streaming off her body as she gazed out across an endless expanse of foam-tossed water. The sun was already below the horizon, sinking with a magnificent blaze of cerulean, gold, and purple. To the right she could just make out a dark curve of land. Lilliput Island! It had to be!

  She grinned at her own unerring powers of navigation and slapped her rumbling stomach. Hunger no longer mattered. Tomorrow she would have a bellyful of food. Duval always married good cooks.

  She wiped her brow with her forearm, only to wince and quickly lower the arm. The cold ache always grew worse with darkness. For a moment she stared at the widening black ring and angry puff of flesh, then shifted her eyes away. She did not know what to do for it; she did not want to think about how the poison was affecting her.

  Lights winked on in the distance along the edge of the island. Shivering in the lash of spray and wind, she crouched there in the swaying boughs until twilight blurred the separation of sky and sea. Then she gathered herself to go back into the hot mouth of the jungle. The temptation not to return to the major was nearly as strong as the comer beam the searchers had used to try to bring them out of hiding.

  She frowned as she shifted a stake and threw the line to the next tree. At first, while she concealed herself and the unconscious major in the vast hollow trunk of a muyar tree from the first sweeps of the search sleds, it had not been too difficult to believe that if he lived they would strike some point of trust. That belief had faded quickly once he began to recover. He gave her no trust at all, sneered at the fact that she had saved his life, and refused to answer any of her questions. And there was a cold cast to his keen blue eyes which aroused her own distrust. He reminded her of a deadly couchkin, scarlet-banded and coiled to strike. He was the first human she had ever feared.