The Omcri Matrix

by Deborah Chester

  Tith gasped. He knew that voice!

  “You!” he said, forgetting in his excitement to be afraid. “Wait!” Desperately he grasped a leg as the patroller picked herself up and started to run on. Someone else was coming—several others—but Tith paid no heed to them. He wrapped both arms about her leg and hung on in spite of her attempt to shake them off. “Wait! Please! Tith it is! From this morning! Oh, please! The human with you…where to find him?”

  A sled was chuffing closer, drowning out his desperate queries. He heard shouts, and a torch stabbed through the rain.

  The patroller snarled something incomprehensible and yanked Tith up by the arm. Dragging him ruthlessly along, she ran on so fast he could barely keep up. She did not listen to his cries of genuine panic now, and her hand was like iron on his arm.

  The rain eased to a drizzle. He began to make out vague shapes of trees and rocks in the darkness. Apparently her night vision was better than his, for she never stumbled except when the footing became especially slippery. And she was tireless, running on and on at a speed that was killing him. His short legs burned, but he could not catch enough breath to ask her to slow down. Every time he faltered, she jerked him on mercilessly. He could hear the sob of breath in her throat, but still she ran, dragging him uphill now through short trees and bushes that tore viciously at him and whipped him in the face. He cried out, but she never heard, and when he fell down on his knees, she dragged him without stopping until somehow he found the strength to shove himself back onto his feet.

  She was relentless, unstoppable. And whatever pursued them could not quite catch up. He did not understand, because a sled properly rigged with search equipment should have been able to catch them in minutes.

  Ahead through the mist a vast dwelling loomed up on top of the hill. A light shone from one of the windows. Tith could barely see it, for one of his eyes had swelled shut from being whipped by a branch. His lungs were bursting; his head was splitting. Something about the kind patroller who had been so friendly to him this morning was wrong as though she were no longer real. No one could run like this. And even his carefully untrained talent of empathy could detect that all the warmth was gone from her. It was almost like being dragged along by a drone.

  He began to fear her as much as he did whatever was chasing them. But he could not break free of her grip.

  Suddenly a spotlight stabbed out from the building ahead, blinding him. He heard the patroller snarl, but she did not slacken her speed. The chuffing of the sled grew louder, almost on top of them, as though it had found them again. Tith looked up as a loudspeaker blared:

  “Costa! Give yourself up! You can go no farther!”

  She stopped and slewed around to face the sled hovering overhead, dragging Tith like a piece of rag. He dropped to his knees, shuddering with the need for air, while she drew her strifer and fired on the sled. They fired back, and Tith cringed behind her leg in terror as a bolt missed him by inches.

  In the light he could see her plainly for the first time. Her eyes were wild, blazing almost incandescently beneath windtorn hair, and she was smeared with blood. The scent of it made Tith groan.

  A mental force, as powerful as it was unexpected, flattened Tith to the ground. But he caught only the backlash, for it was not aimed at him. Looking up, he saw shapes from a nightmare floating overhead. Three Omcris in streaming robes stretched out their arms in unison and flew at the sled. The men aboard shouted and fired, and Tith gasped as the bolts blazed right through the Omcris without effect. Ozone burned in the air, making him sneeze, and the Omcris seemed to grow larger.

  It was the first time he had ever seen the fabled Omcris, although plenty of stories had been told in the nursery. One of his mates did not believe in Omcris, and Tith thought, Just wait until I tell you, Mis. But all the same, his fur was prickling along his spine and his claws came out. His heart hammered in his chest until he feared it would burst.

  The patroller grunted and jerked Tith up. “Must hurry,” she mumbled to herself. She ran toward the house, still dragging him with her.

  A quick, well-aimed blast from her strifer unlocked the circuits of the massive door. She kicked her way inside and shouted at a slim, hairless man descending the long, curved stairs with another human—unconscious—cradled in his arms.

  “Defiler!” screamed the hairless man. “By the glory of Kanta does the Blessed One live! By her will shall you die!” He fired a queer, blunt-nosed weapon. The missile screamed past Tith’s ear.

  The patroller dropped Tith’s arm at long last, diving in a quick roll to one side as the hairless man fired again. Tith scuttled out of the way, panic-stricken as the battle began in earnest. The whine and bark of weapons both inside the house and out, the stench of fried ozone and fear, and the throbbing sickness in his head was more than he could bear. He saw the hairless man suddenly fling out his arms and fall in a limp tumble down the stairs. The patroller straightened from her crouch in triumph, but her face was expressionless, almost dead. The slackness there was horrible, but worse were her eyes, clearly seen now in the light. The bright yellow color Tith remembered was dimmed by a murky darkness as though she were being drained away from the inside.

  She glanced briefly around as though looking for Tith, but he pressed himself back more tightly into the shadows beneath a table and did not breathe. After a moment she moved away, heading for the stairs, where with a careless nudge of her foot she pushed aside the hairless man she had just killed and went on up to where the other man lay sprawled with equal lifelessness.

  A chill prickled across Tith’s back. He dared turn his head slightly and gasped as an Omcri entered. It extended a gloved hand toward Costa.

  “The Kublai lives,” she said in a toneless voice as dead as her face.

  “Satisfactory,” replied the Omcri.

  Tith shivered, certain he would remember that horrible, unworldly voice in his grave.

  A second Omcri entered, and beside him walked a tall man of military bearing.

  “There is another here,” said Costa.

  Tith bit down upon a whimper of fear and curled himself up even more tightly, certain the violent thumping of his heart would give him away. One of the Omcris turned slightly in his direction, and Tith closed his eyes.

  “Of importance, none,” said the first Omcri. “Use of this planet, finished. Costa, we keep. Janal, we keep. Kublai, we recover. Go, all.”

  “Accord,” said the second Omcri.

  Gathering up the unconscious Kublai over her shoulder, Costa walked heavy-footed behind the others as they all filed out. Just at the door, however, she glanced over her shoulder in Tith’s direction. For an instant, through his throbbing daze of terror and pain, he imagined he saw a look of pleading enter her eyes. Then she was gone, and the house was abruptly plunged into darkness, leaving him there alone with the burned stench of fresh blood curling in on the rain-washed air through the open door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Water, cold and incessant, dripped on Haufren’s face, pounding against his closed eyes, sluicing down the angles of his face, running into the corners of his mouth. He groaned and turned his head to one side, snorting as water threatened to trickle into his nostrils, and abruptly woke up to the surprise of not being dead after all.

  He grimaced, growing cognizant of unbearable bands of pain around both shoulders and across his back as though someone were branding him with a fiery iron. His whole body was strangely immobile and heavy. He opened his eyes with a quick blink against the rain, stared at the gray sky through thickly interlaced branches overhead, and tried to lift his head without success. He tried again, pulled it forward and upright, then let it fall as the effort of balancing it proved too much. His chin slammed against his chest, and the pain nearly snapped his neck.

  He grunted, breathing several moments through his mouth until at last the agony stopped shooting from the base of his neck to the top of his skull, and managed to open one swimming eye. The view was straight
down this time, and the ground was not close. He stared at his feet dangling in the air, then slowly began piecing together his situation. The limb holding him seemed to be rammed through the back of his tunic, and as long as the cloth held he could go on hanging here.

  Gingerly he drew in a deep breath and called, “Puce?”

  Muted, irritable squawks made him drag his head up again. He glanced warily around. Row after row of blue-beaked, vicious carpals lined the branches around him, gripping their perches with enormous, razor-sharp talons. They slashed each other as they jostled miserably in the rain, trying to crowd beneath the meager shelter of the leaves. Scarlet-edged eyes regarded Haufren with cold intent. They were flesh eaters, he remembered, and alarm sank through him. Apparently, from their present behavior, they did not feed in the rain, but as soon as it stopped he had no doubt they would strip him to a skeleton in minutes. He shivered, licking some of the rain from his lips to ease a suddenly dry throat. He had to work himself free without falling, and he had to start now.

  Slowly, with extreme care, he started by lifting his right hand over his left shoulder. At least, he tried to do that. His joints were locked up; the effort to pull his hand up higher than his elbow brought excruciating pain. He gasped, his lips curling back over his teeth in an effort not to cry out. With the pain came unwanted memories of the planet Ruibo, where a certain group of its inhabitants had hung him by the heels for three days in an experiment to see which would happen first: his giving them the information they wanted, or his skull bursting from the intolerable pressure.

  This situation is not as bad, he told himself, trying to find some pride to overcome his fear, and I survived that one.

  Pushing aside the memory of how long it had taken him to be able to walk easily after that mission, he concentrated on forcing his hand higher, inch by slow inch, while his cramped muscles stretched reluctantly. Finally his hand clamped down upon his shoulder, and triumphantly, blinking the tears from his eyes, he paused to rest.

  The rain also paused.

  Haufren squinted up at the sky, overwhelmed by desperation and a hysterical urge to laugh. Demos, how he hated this miserable planet with its naive population, its ridiculous vacation industry, its refusal to permit proper military protection units, its unguarded gateway point to another galaxy, and its damned, unmanaged weather!

  But there was no time to curse the elements. Already the carpals were flapping and squawking restlessly, preening their fur, and stretching out long, scrawny necks to scream furiously at him. He longed for a strifer set on wide beam as he gritted his teeth and forced himself past pain, stiffness, and lack of circulation to grasp the branch hooked under his left arm. Just as his shaking fingers closed around the rough, sodden bark, he heard a ripping of cloth. He froze involuntarily, then shouted as a carpal dived at him with an ear-splitting screech. Startled, the thing veered off, striking him only with a wingtip that stank of vermin and decay.

  Grunting with the effort, Haufren twisted himself around. He was definitely slipping; he might as well go for all he could. Trying to gauge the tensile strength remaining in the bowing branch, he grasped it more tightly, tried to catch hold of it with his left hand as well, and failed. There was no feeling at all in his left arm. He might as well be waving around a solid fuel canister.

  The branch that was his lifeline snapped with a loudness that echoed off the dripping trees. Panicked by suddenly finding himself in midair, Haufren threw out his right arm wildly, seeking any hold possible. He caught at leaves, which slipped through his hand, and continued falling. A carpal came at him again; this time with better aim. It struck, slicing his cheek viciously. For a second he felt nothing, then an incredible wave of pain swept across his face, and hot blood welled up through the cut.

  And he was still falling, twisting, and flailing in the air while the ground seemed to rush at him. He bounced off a branch, crashing through leaves as insubstantial as the air, and could not catch anything. Carpals wheeled furiously in a descent to match his, shrieking at him. Another struck, gouging open his leg with a swift talon. He was nearly to the lowest branches, falling head first now, his wide eyes frozen on the twisted wreckage of the sled directly below like target zero, with the broken point of the windscreen waiting like a massive stake to impale him.

  His mind stretched and snapped over into absolute terror, and at that moment he would have given more than his soul to be able to close his eyes, turn the other direction, anything, so as not to watch death rushing right at him.

  No, no, no, no!

  He spread his arms out wide as he plummeted through the last branches, and screamed as the impact nearly tore his left arm from his shoulder. But if the branches slowed his fall, they did not stop it. Still head down, he gauged the final four meters as his shoulders and hips scraped through the latticework of branches, and only then could he clench shut his eyes.

  One knee caught on something; he crooked it desperately, slipped, and screamed as by sheer gut-wrenching willpower he tightened his thigh muscles and clamped that knee hard upon the swaying twig that had saved him. For a long sickening moment he bobbed up and down with the jagged, twisted point of metal waiting below him. Then, finally, he was able to open his eyes, stinging from the sweat pouring into them. Slowly he recovered from his numbing terror. His racing heart eased up, and he began to draw in full breaths again.

  His thigh muscles were beginning to quiver from the strain, but at that moment he didn’t care. He waited until he had his wits back under control, then he curled himself up, stomach muscles groaning from the strain, and got a solid grasp on the branch. His left arm was still useless, but with his right hand and his knee, he managed to work his way toward the trunk, upside down with blood trickling annoyingly into his ear. Sawtooth vines were wrapped around the tree at this height, and he cut his clothes and himself into ribbons as he grasped the trunk with his good arm and slid by slow, halting degrees down to the ground.

  For a moment he stood there gasping for breath, his lungs on fire and his clothes soaked through with rain, sweat, and blood. He took a step, staggered, and went down on one knee as a sled chuffed suddenly into view overhead. It hovered over him while he knelt there in the open, a perfect target too weak to even scramble for cover. Still panting, he did not even bother to lift his head. After what he had just survived, a gibbering corner of his mind could not believe anything would kill him now. The rest of him, of course, knew better.

  Move, he told himself, lifting a shaking hand to dash the sweat from his eyes. Move!

  But all he could manage was to lift his head. The sled landed practically on top of him, blinding him as its air jets blew muddy twigs and leaves into a gale. Then silence fell over the jungle, broken only by the enraged screaming of the carpals flying away in a frustrated horde.

  A smooth, silken voice like warmed cream said calmly, “Behold the infamous Major Brith Haufren IV, eight times decorated for bravery beyond the call of duty, due for promotion, well-regarded by senior command in the Fleet, and under serious consideration for desertion-arrest. I presume you have been spending the last several weeks groveling in the mud of this miserable jungle. Surely had you needed a vacation, you could have chosen some less expensive planet and made the standard request for leave in the standard way?”

  Haufren blinked stupidly at the lean, elegant Zethian gazing down at him with enormous round eyes of intermingled jade and amber. A thin ray of sunshine broke through the clouds for a second, long enough to cast a radiant nimbus about the sleek, black fur.

  “Silta!” cried Haufren gladly and fainted.

  “Drink this,” said Silta minutes later when Haufren dazedly opened his eyes. He shoved a field cup at Haufren, his big eyes roving the jungle around them.

  Haufren drank thirstily, sighing as the liquid spread a reviving warmth through his stomach. It had begun to rain again, but they were dry beneath a tarp spread tent-fashion over the sled. Silta crouched beside him, snarling in distaste at the weather,
and intent on the matted undergrowth.

  Haufren blinked and suddenly sat up with a wince. “What is it?” he asked quietly.

  Silta flattened his ears as a downpour opened up, drumming on the tarp. “We are being stalked.”

  “Kicats!” said Haufren, recalling those long days in the jungle with Costa when every moment included a watch for the big animals. He lifted a hand gingerly to his throbbing cheek and touched the warm stickiness coating his torn and swelling flesh. “They smell my blood—”

  “No,” said Silta. “It is a man-thing.”

  Haufren glanced at him with a frown, only to realize Silta was using the primitive term of his native language deliberately. He held his questions, however, as Silta sent out a delicate mind probe.

  “Sistat!” spat Silta after a moment, shaking his head. “What is Ishut? A piece of unpleasantness and what else?”

  “Something we don’t want to mix with,” said Haufren. “Let’s get this sled off the ground. It isn’t safe to be down here anyway.”

  “We are requested to wait,” said Silta, taking out a strifer and charging it.

  “Wait?” Bewildered, Haufren stared at him. “For whom? Silta, you haven’t—”

  “Local allies,” broke in the Zethian coolly.

  “Silta! Demos, they can’t be trusted. We—”

  “Nor can you, Major.”

  “What?” Taken aback, Haufren stared at the companion and fellow officer who had been a close friend for years. “You can’t be serious about that desertion charge.”

  “Pfit! Haufren, you fool!” said Silta with an angry gesture. He moved to the rear of the sled and opened a storage locker. Curled inside was a sleeping nib, golden pelted, and drawn under the ribs. It moaned lightly, and Silta placed a gentle hand on that small shoulder before closing the locker once again. “Remember him?”