The Omcri Matrix

by Deborah Chester

  Costa turned left onto a smaller track as the street with its mosaic paving of polymer-coated seashells curved out toward the beaches. A few steps beyond, discreetly hidden behind a stand of trees, stood a barrier entry point. She stopped to frown at it.

  “Automated?” asked Haufren.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you need a special clearance code?”

  “No. Any native inhabitant has access.” She tugged at her warrior braid and snapped down an eyelid as the sun broke briefly from behind some clouds. “But if my ID flags attention—”

  “Not if, Lieutenant,” he said grimly. “The question is how long will we have from that mark? Are there active patrols stationed here?”

  “No. Just a few ceeps for crowd control and emergencies. They couldn’t handle us.” She squinted, considering it. “Beros is two hours flight time by rapid shuttle.”

  “You say this Duval lives a kilometer from here?”

  “Approximately.”

  “Demos, slinny! Slackness won’t cut!”

  “There has never been a reason to know the exact distance!” she shouted back, equally furious at herself for her ignorance. “I have come here twice on pleasure. It’s not a part of my job.”

  He gripped her arm hard at the elbow. “Your job is to stay alive. When you go through that gate you have perhaps ten or fifteen minutes to reach Duval. That’s fifteen minutes back. How long will it take to convince him to help us? If he will at all.”

  “We can trust him. How many times must I say it until you will believe me?”

  “All right. Say thirty minutes talk-time. That’s one hour. And that gives us one hour to break into communications, clear this rock, and find a place to hide.”

  “We can get a sled—”

  “And go where? Back to the coast? Back to the jungle?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe—”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe there’s a chance we can get down to the southern continent. I’ll see what Duval thinks.”

  “Duval,” said Haufren grimly, “had better be good.”

  “He is.”

  “I don’t like trusting my hide to unknown factors.”

  She looked down at his hand gripping her arm, then glared at him. “Neither do I,” she said softly and broke free. “I’ll be back quick-time.”

  “Make it sooner,” he said and sat down on a rock to wait.

  Costa walked over to the entry point, taking deep breaths in an effort to steady her nerves.

  “Lieutenant!” he called.

  She glanced back.

  “If he keeps medical supplies, be sure you get some more droxyhyazine. What we have won’t last much longer.”

  She lifted a hand in acknowledgment, not trusting herself to speak. Fear, never buried very deep, resurfaced, and she had to fight it down. How long until the Omcris decided they needed her? She pushed the thought away.

  Planting herself by the gate scanner, she waited for her ID to be read. Nothing happened. With a frown she pushed the reset button, and a small notice flashed:

  DUE TO TEMPORARY MALFUNCTION, SCANNER INOPERABLE. PLEASE COMMIT MANUAL GRID CODE TO SCANNER MEMORY. APOLOGY TENDERED.

  Costa threw back her head with a laugh. “Thanks to Moii! We just gained an extra hour,” she said over her shoulder and swiftly punched in her code on the recessed keypad. The wait, only seconds long, seemed interminable, then the sonic gate dropped, and she was through. If there were scanner problems, that meant some drone in the village communications center was having to manually coordinate all data traffic. And if the luck Haufren didn’t believe in stayed with her, the drone might be programmed to assign all grid code traffic to a low priority channel. Eventually the flag would be noted, but not for a while. Her spirits rose.

  Duval’s place was a low, rambling compound overlooking the sea and structured of brown native stone. She ignored the breathtaking scenery and keyed in for admittance at the door. She had not mentioned to Haufren the possibility that Duval might be elsewhere on assignment. Glad Haufren was not here standing at her shoulder, she fidgeted at the delay and rekeyed.

  Finally the door slid open. Costa sighed and started to step over the threshold, only to freeze as she realized a scanner booth had been installed in the doorway. Anyone stepping inside would be automatically trapped there until scanning was completed, or until someone decided to let her out. She drew her strifer with a snarl and fried the control panel. Black smoke boiled out over her, stinging her eyes and nostrils.

  “Duval!” she shouted furiously. “Either face me or snipe me down. But no more tricks, or I’ll fight you to blood-honor!”

  A minute later, the rear door of the box opened and Duval stood there. His craggy, square-jawed face was bleak.

  “Costa,” he said quietly. “If you had been smart you would have run the moment you saw the scanner booth. Now I have no choice but to take you in to Janal.” He lifted his big, freckled hand away from his side to show the strifer aimed at her gut.

  Chapter Seven

  Xixit crawled through the humming labyrinth of access tubes, barely restraining the urge to rip out sections of circuits webbed in delicate complexity throughout the panels. He refused, however, to let anger affect his good sense. Sabotage would trigger alarms, and he could not afford to be caught.

  Pausing at an intersection where illegally bared conduits leaked sufficient energy to make his bald scalp prickle, he gritted his teeth and carefully counted the previous intersections he had passed. Two hours in this place had shown him that his map of the installation was wrong. When he cleared Playworld he would seek out his spy to personally deal him a slow, painful death for this betrayal. The flayers of the Royal House would be too kind.

  Xixit twitched violently as the energy waves crawled through his body. Hastily he moved on, shuddering as he went. Finally the spasms eased. He lifted a shaking hand to wipe away some of the sweat from his face. Something near him sizzled faintly, and he crawled faster. How he hated these wires, energy pods, and reactor/generators! This was not a place for one of the devoted. Even the foul sewers with their stench, slime, and sinister filth-eaters had been better than this.

  Ah, there!

  Gratefully he crawled through the eighth intersection. Crouching beneath a red hatch overhead, he paused long enough to mentally run through his calculations again, then lifted his hands to the metal wheel. It resisted him at first then spun. A hydraulic release lifted the hatch with a soft hiss, and he poked his head through cautiously.

  He saw a long, narrow room like a corridor lit by regularly spaced panels. It was deserted. With a snort of relief he grasped the edges of the floor and boosted himself out. He used his heel to push down the hatch, and it resealed itself quietly. The hum that had shook his nerves for so long faded. He drew in a deep breath and walked over to a vast bank of controls, studying them with a frown of incomprehension. To the left was a door. He pressed his ear to it, and gingerly sent out a mental query. Someone was beyond it, but the brainwaves were operating in a low, non-alert beta mode. He set his palm against the activator, and the door slid aside.

  A vast gulf of blackness yawned before him, and with it came the deadly scream of a rapid shuttle, bigger than life, its nose aimed right at him. He fell back, and the door shut, closing off a shout of anger. Xixit lay where he had fallen, panting as his panic slowly faded. In its place rose fury. A simulator room! A place of blasphemy against life. He cursed long and thoroughly.

  Slowly he picked himself up, recalling himself to his death-sworn purpose. Nothing, not even this maze of nightmares on this disgusting planet, could shake him from it. He had found the Mah, tracing piece after piece of the body through the network of sewers to a villa on the Street of Harmony. He knew now who owned that villa. And he knew the Blessed One was not within its walls. But there he had lost the trail. Already he had combed the vast complex of amusement parks within the Nogales empire. He knew the layout of the rides, of the simulator houses, o
f the scientific attractions, and of the sensual kiosks. He had even explored the casino, illegally operated and very difficult to access. That left the underground plant of machinery and computers, which he had just come through, and the Ishut quarters.

  He closed his eyes a moment to regather himself against the evil of discouragement. Carefully he cleared from his mind the problems, the disappointments, the hunger, and the weariness. He was pledged and full-sworn. He could not eat or sleep full quota until the Blessed One was found. His senses would remain keener for their deprivation.

  Moving down the corridor, he found a second door and checked it with more caution than before. Nothing sentient registered. He opened the door and found himself in another corridor. This one was lined in an unusual silver metal, some sort of alloy which deadened every sound. Even his footfalls were silenced, absorbed so completely that the quiet upset his balance. He stepped carefully, hands spread out and eyes squinted in concentration, unable to understand why he should lose his equilibrium so suddenly when he still had other senses to guide him.

  Not a single door except the one behind him opened out of that corridor. He had no choice but to keep going. And soon the muted reflection of light off featureless metal began to hurt his eyes, so that he could barely keep them open. He gritted his teeth and kept going. At last he stood blocked by a wall. A hatchway, sealed and painted scarlet, was set into it. He read the sign, frowning as he struggled with the unfamiliar Unise characters:

  WARNING! ACTIVE REACTOR BEYOND THIS DOOR. NO ENTRY WITHOUT ACCESS CODE.

  “Hyata, mala din!”

  He stumbled back and resolutely turned around to retrace his staggering steps. This accursed place deserved annihilation. How he hoped the Blessed One would order it!

  “You!” said a gruff voice just as he made his way out of the corridor back to more stable ground. “This is a restricted area. What is your authorization code?”

  Xixit straightened.

  “You’re an Ecletian.” The man came toward him with visible surprise. “How did you get back here? How did you become lost from your guide? Sir, permit me to escort you out—”

  Xixit could waste no more time. Discounting the risks, he sprang at the man, who was a big, beefy Ulang armed only with a short, leather-tipped club obviously used to keep the Ishut workers in line. But Xixit was no drugged Ishut. He chopped one wrist sharply at the man’s throat and used the other hand to grasp the man’s temple. His probe shot deep into that clumsy, unprotected mind. In seconds he had his answer. The Blessed One was not here.

  With a curse, Xixit released his captive, and the man sank unsteadily to his knees, groaning. Xixit stared down at him with annoyance. Murder would alert others to his presence here, but he must get out fast and he must get out now. His lips tightened briefly as he drew a needle-thin dagger from his sleeve. His hand flashed down, and the man sprawled limply across the floor. Xixit grasped his collar and dragged him into the blackness of the simulator room, shoving him inside while shuttles caromed and fired on each other with convincing bursts of flame and screams of stressed metal.

  Xixit shut the door, sneezing to clear his nostrils of the stench of oxidizing fuel. Then he ran back to the hatch through which he had gained original access and lowered himself into the tube just as echoing footsteps warned him of the approach of another technician. He sealed the hatch and scuttled along rapidly. Besides the well of ignorance in the man’s mind regarding the Kublai, he had gained only one other strong impression in that jumble of defiled thoughts. And it had to do with another Ecletian, a real one who possessed some degree of authority over these operations.

  Xixit grimaced, feeling ill. To invade the thoughts of an unbeliever was to wallow through incredible filth, becoming equally defiled and therefore lost to the Hope of All Ending. Unlike the simple act of driving a blade into the ground to clean off the blood, to clean his mind would require days of severe purification. If death befell him on this disgusting planet, he would be doomed for eternity to wander outside with the unbelievers.

  Xixit paused a moment, breathing heavily. He folded himself up into a tight knot, seeking the right mental terms of imploring. After a few moments, he straightened. He had his purpose. If he succeeded in saving the Blessed One, even at the cost of his own life, the Blessed One would surely reward him by pleading with the great Kanta on his behalf. He need not face doom; he need not fear.

  Confidence returned to him. Besides, now that the defilement was done, he was free to use again this swifter, more dangerous form of gathering information. He would return to Beros and seek out the Ecletian. No doubt his own disguise as one of that repulsive species would make access to the creature easier. And if another killing proved necessary, well, he had eaten the decayed flesh of the Mah Bessam al-zk and he had inhaled the sacred perfume of the Blessed One’s own garments. If the Ecletian carried the guilt odor of their harm upon his body, then his death would be swift justice, nothing more.

  In his broad office suite overlooking the Golden Plaza fountains, Ezbell paced twice around the circumference of the room, forgetting in his agitation to wince for the pain of the living carpet crushed beneath his footsteps. Had Wob Nogales not insisted he decorate his working area in fashionable status-symbols, he would have been content and far more comfortable in a utilitarian cell, warmly heated and humidified of course. But, no, he was forced into perpetual guilt over his flooring, flooded with light from vast windows, and dwarfed by sheer space and height. He disliked it all as much as he disliked Playworld, but there was the matter of his ambitions and the lack of truly complex work on far away Eclet V.

  Normally, he had to be challenged mentally even at the cost of his emotions and morals. But today as he dropped wearily into his suspensor chair and swallowed another green tablet, he thought he did not need quite this much challenge.

  Jillian Nogales was still missing. After days of discreet search and inquiry, no sign of her had turned up. His own alarm was quite eclipsed by Wob’s, and several delicate business maneuvers had nearly been wrecked by Wob’s lack of sensible judgment. The Kublai’s kidnapping had been shoved aside, and this worried Ezbell very much. He expected to be arrested at any time. The Kublai should have been released by now, but Wob refused to have the matter brought up. He wanted his daughter home and safe. Even the vital Delex merger had been delayed again.

  Merely thinking about that most recent business disaster made Ezbell reach for another tablet. It was mid-morning and already he had lost count of his daily quota. Too many of them had rather unpleasant side effects, but his nerves could no longer stand alone. He sucked at the crumbling tablet between his double tongues and swallowed it as the bitter inside tanged through his mouth. For a moment he longed to be human. Then he could express himself violently. Then he would have teeth with which to bite or gnaw on something more substantial than dry powders and bland liquids. He could even shout. But an Ecletian had no expression for his tension. Indeed, an Ecletian was not supposed to even experience stress.

  With a sigh, he answered the call from his reception drone.

  “Commander Janal is here, sir.”

  “Here? Not on the viewer?”

  “Commander Janal is here in the reception area, sir.”

  Ezbell recovered quickly from his surprise. Concealing his dismay, he stood up courteously as the commander strode in. Strong, incisively minded, and quick to take action, Janal was an alarming human whom Ezbell avoided as much as possible during Wob’s dinner parties where the commander was an invariable favorite. But today Janal looked as tired as Ezbell felt, and his movements lacked their usual snap. There was something odd about his eyes as well. Ezbell blinked nearsightedly, wishing for dimmer illumination so his vision would be better.

  When they had both sat down and the courteous formalities were over, Janal leaned forward. “I realize Jillian’s absence has become a grave matter. That’s why I thought it necessary to come here in person today. We have followed the standard procedures of c
hecking the spaceport and notifying all outlying stations on the planet. She is tied to civilized areas because of her, er, health problems, so I am sure that were she still here on Playworld she would have surfaced by now.”

  “Indeed. Your concern is appreciated by Mr. Nogales,” said Ezbell. One of the two unlabeled disks on his desk contained a not yet erased payroll authorization for the mercenary abduction team. Ezbell spread his webbed fingers nervously over it.

  Janal fidgeted, looking impatient. “She has disappeared before. I wonder if Wob is not overreacting—”

  “Disappeared, yes, but never in this manner. Sir, may I submit that she has perhaps been abducted?” Ezbell felt himself drying out as he spoke; this conversation was growing too daring for his abilities. The continuing search for the Kublai was well publicized. Carefully he moved his hand from the disk.

  Janal smiled grimly. “I’m afraid everyone has kidnapping on his mind. Have you any basis for this theory?”

  “Normally she leaves with her drones, medications, personal staff, and a large wardrobe. She is not a clandestine person. And these departures usually follow a family argument of some violence.”

  “There have been other incidents, however,” said Janal with enough acerbity to make Ezbell squirm.

  “Yes. I see you have read her file. Those occurred several years ago. I believe—”

  “See here. We do understand the importance of finding Jillian. I have both city and planet patrol working on the matter. But I strongly believe she is off-planet. The fact that she took her most crucial drone and her personal lytcar do not point to an abduction. Besides, by now Wob would have received a ransom note.”