The Omcri Matrix

by Deborah Chester

  When she finished, Janal remained silent for so long she wondered if communication had been cut.

  “Let me speak to the Mah,” he said at last.

  She handed over the communicator and stood aside. The courtesy proved unnecessary; Janal and Bessam spoke in Drugh Dialect I, which she recognized but did not understand. After a few minutes of heated argument, Bessam broke off and handed the communicator back.

  “Costa?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Your assignment remains.”

  She grinned. “Yes, sir!”

  “There is one adjustment. Consider Mah Bessam your temporary commander.”

  “But—”

  “No protests, Lieutenant. The Kublai’s presence here is potentially explosive. We can’t afford to create an incident. I know you will do your duty. Janal out.”

  She hooked the communicator back onto her belt, expecting Bessam to smirk. His expression of relief surprised her.

  “At last, that duty is over,” he said, pulling out a brightly colored cloth to fan himself.

  She frowned. “You mean this was all for show? That it meant nothing?” Belatedly, she realized she was being openly discourteous and tried to alter her tone. “Do you always—”

  But the Mah no longer seemed offended as he raised his hand casually in a signal to the shuttle. “Face,” he said, fanning himself. “One is required to go through these formalities of ritual. They mean nothing, of course. Will this delegation be long-winded? I find myself soiled and thirsty. Your planet is much touted, Lieutenant, but I fear my appreciation of untamed nature is small.”

  “No doubt,” she said tersely.

  With a shrug he walked back to the shuttle, while the delegation muttered and mopped brows and shuffled about. The heat grew more oppressive as the wind died down. Costa endured the delay stoically, pulling in all her senses to tune out her surroundings. She needed rest. She was being too emotional in front of the Directors.

  Then the anger sparked again. What did it matter?

  Finally the Kublai appeared, slim and graceful of body despite his arrogant stance. His elaborate headdress was embroidered with gold that flashed in the sun, and he wore exquisite, tissue-supple leather that wrought a faint gasp from the Dhurries behind Costa. She could have cut off her warrior braid in disgust. No one was more respectful of his superiors than a Dhurrie, but no Dhurrie respected poverty and even the despised Ishuts did not wear animal skins in public display. The Kublai could not have appeared in anything more calculated to cause passivity, laziness, and the theft of his possessions in the jungle. Unmindful of these problems, the delegates swarmed His Supreme Glory, who received their fawning welcome with a faint, slightly bored smile, then broke away to approach Costa’s squad.

  “We have always desired to take up the hunt on Playworld,” he said in a soft, sibilant voice that could not quite pronounce consonants. “Alas, this time must be devoted to that which is greater. Serve us well, and all shall be amply rewarded. When do we depart, squad leader?”

  Not by so much as a flicker of an eyelid did Costa breach protocol by glancing at him. Her gaze remained correctly distant. “1700, Glory.”

  “Which is?”

  “Dawn.”

  He beamed, clapping his soft hands together. “Splendid! My friends, do you hear? We begin at dawn. Oh, do not moan, Bessam, my lazy companion! We have the privilege of serving the great Kanta. And when we have finished our sacred duties, then we shall go hunting. Yes, hunting in a true wilderness. None of the ceremonial, boring displays of tame animals more ready to die than we are to kill them.” He turned away from Costa to gesture at the bowing Mah. “Arrange it, Bessam. We are certain Playworld will be delighted if we stay longer than our original plan.”

  “Thy wish is done, Glory,” said Bessam in a toneless voice, which contrasted flatly with the Kublai’s enthusiasm.

  Under the aegis of the welcoming delegation, the Kublai, his richly dressed friends, and the personal guard were conveyed to Beros, while two more shuttles bearing auxiliary guards, servants, the Companions of Delight, and their attendants roared in swift descent over the field. Costa grimaced at her aching ears and blinked at an unwieldy, rectangular metal box being unloaded from the royal shuttle.

  “At rest, squad,” she said and strode over to Bessam, whose expression had pinched into sour displeasure as soon as his ruler had departed. “That container…” She pointed. “If it holds valuables, it should be stored in a security compound on the east side of the landing field. Shall I have it registered for you?”

  Bessam stared at her in astonishment, then tittered. “Oh, you ignorant parochials! How amusing! No, no, Lieutenant, you may not register our sacrifice to Kanta.”

  “Sacrifice!” Involuntarily her nostrils quivered, seeking the scent of whatever lay inside the box. “Do you bring a live offering, Mah Bessam? This will have to be reported.”

  “Why, Lieutenant,” he said blandly, spreading wide his tinted palms. “We are well aware of your regulations. No violations have been made. You have the word of the Drugh government.” For a moment his eyes bored into her skeptical ones, then he shrugged and fluttered his handcloth. “What can we do but humor His Supreme Glory in this quest to revive the Kanta religion? He believes that in coming here to the ancient ruins of the original temples he will accomplish something profound. The belief is harmless, Lieutenant. Humor His Glory with us, please.”

  With a shrug of distaste, she drew back. “My orders oblige me to do so, sir. Is there anything else?”

  At his negative, she turned on her heel and went back to the squad. “Dismissed,” she said.

  They had already been given their orders for tomorrow. The squad dispersed as swiftly as the desert wind, and only then did she allow her straight shoulders to sag wearily as she left the field alone, choosing to walk back into the slums rather than take transport.

  Four days later, she ducked the angry whine of strifer fire and rolled beneath a bush just as the bolt meant for her split a sizable chunk of wood from a muyar trunk. The stench of burning wood mingled with that of ozone and rotting earth as she buried herself lower in the undergrowth.

  “Hobra! Noyle! Fan out—”

  She sprang and rolled again as strifers mowed down her protection. Agonizing fire scorched her leg, which gave under her. Choking back an outcry, she grasped the thin line at her belt and threw the tiny grappler up into the thickly laced limbs overhead. It curled around a branch and held, and with a grunt she hauled herself up, a perfect target for two seconds. Then mercifully she was hidden in the treetop.

  Puffing, she crouched low and sprang to another limb, moving with care. A shaking limb would betray her position to the attackers. No one blew her out of the sky, and with a gasp she sank down, wincing as she put a probing hand to her leg. It was just a graze; she need not fear serious loss of mobility, but oh, Moii, the pain!

  She wiped a sleeve across her face, smearing dirt, sweat, and tears on it, and listened helplessly to the screams of rage and agony as men died all around her. Take to the trees, the trees! But they had no jungle lore. They did not know what to do except stupidly stand their ground and fight in the Drughan way while snipers mowed them down. She had lost the positions of her squad. She dared not thumb open her communicator. But neither could she just squat up here, quaking in terror. She must do something!

  Gathering her line in a small coil, she clipped it to her belt and hauled herself up a sawtooth vine, grimacing as it pricked through her heavy gloves. The attackers had encircled the camp and opened fire just as everyone gathered wearily for supper. They had heavy strifers and bolt rifles, outgunning everything in the camp, and even the staunch bravery of the Drugh guards could not hold out much longer against such odds. She swung into the next tree, landing noiselessly above a pair of men in dark jumpsuits and armored helmets busily preparing a small deton-bomb.

  Costa’s strifer erupted with two needle-thin spits of death, and the bombers fell.
She dropped off the limb to the ground beside them and pulled their bodies aside to crouch in their place. Swiftly she reset the deton, fumbling with the trajectory meters, working more by instinct than expertise. Aiming it across the camp where the bolt rifles seemed to be massed most tightly, she fired the bomb and threw herself flat in the coughing backlash that shook the earth beneath her and drove all the breath from her lungs. For a moment she lay stunned and deafened, her head ringing dizzily, then she pushed herself up and grimly surveyed the flames shooting through the heavy undergrowth. No more bolt rifles fired, and she nodded in satisfaction.

  As she started to load another bomb, however, strifer fire exploded in her face, knocking her back. Only a swift leap saved her as more strifers raked the spot where she had crouched a moment before. She slithered far back beneath a thornbush, shaking uncontrollably with the need to cough out the fire in her lungs. Strifers swept rapidly overhead, trying to drive her from her scanty cover. She dragged herself to her knees beyond the bush, clutching her stomach in desperation. She was going to be sick; no, she dared not stop moving, not for an instant! Somehow she scrambled on, flinching from each sweep of death, yet somehow escaping by dodging again and again. Coughing overwhelmed her, and she fell on her face, writhing in agony as a wave of nausea swept over her. She retched violently, then threw herself to one side as the strifers fired again. They were toying with her, anticipating her every move, driving her easily along into whatever trap they had waiting.

  She must get back into the trees! But how? She would be picked off the moment she left ground cover. A death cry shrilled nearby, making her start and whirl around on her knees. Panting, she looked frantically about, unable to clear her singed nostrils to scent out anyone who might be close. Her nerves sang like wires; she needed nothing to tell her that she was well in the trap. But from which side would it spring closed?

  Gathering her rubbery legs beneath her, she reached for the line coiled at her belt, determined to try to get up even if it brought her death. The wind shifted, and suddenly she no longer smelled death and fire and blood, but something cold, tainted, and infinitely evil. Omcri!

  Her heart leapt into her throat as one of the creatures lifted noiselessly from the matted undergrowth a meter or more into the air and began to glide toward her, the long robe billowing out. Costa froze, fear hammering through her. She could not even breathe. The line fell from her nerveless fingers, then as the devil-thing rushed toward her with outspread arms, she snatched at her strifer and fired point-blank.

  The thick robe smoked and charred, falling open in long tatters to reveal nothing but a dark, shapeless cloud. Coldness touched her sweating face, and with a scream she ducked to one side, barely eluding the creature. It circled and flew at her again, the cowl falling back as it swooped faster. She saw the knife in its gloved hand, a long, translucent blade filled with a milky substance that swirled and glowed eerily in the failing light. Desperately Costa reached for her own cutter, snapping out the three toothed blades with a practiced flick of her wrist. She threw hard, slicing off the Omcri’s knife hand at the wrist, yet although the knife fell for a moment the creature merely plucked it from midair and came at her again, unimpaired.

  Oh, Moii, why hadn’t she struck a bargain with the Omcri in the wineshop? She could be far away from this by now with her money and her new ID grid. But even as she dodged, unsuccessfully this time, and cried out as the Omcri wrenched her arms behind her and lifted her into the air with it, she knew she would have died no matter what bargain she made. Assassins of this caliber needed no loose ends to talk after the deed was done on a different side of the galaxy.

  The Omcri enfolded itself about her, and she screamed again, struggling vainly against a force she could not resist. Coldness invaded her body, seeping through her as a horrible finger of thought slid inside her brain, probing, invading, violating. Pain jerked her ruthlessly, and she was freezing, congealing, growing rigid and unable to struggle. But she would not go easily to the death this faceless one planned for her. Grimly, forcing stiff fingers to obey, she grasped the butt of her strifer and drew it, turning it upon herself. Another scream ripped from her throat as her brain seemed to shred apart, then she was falling, spiraling down into oblivion.

  Chapter Three

  Costa awakened slowly to a throbbing pain, astonished to find herself still alive. With difficulty she sat up, then drew a swift breath and listened to the silence surrounding her. The battle was over! It was just twilight, so she could not have been unconscious long. But why hadn’t the Omcri finished her? With a shudder, she cradled her arm against her middle, trying to work out the coldness which had invaded her through to the bone. After a moment the arm felt better, but she could not force away the sensation of having been tainted by that thing invading her mind.

  Her strifer lay at her side, the charge nearly drained. She picked it up and holstered it with trembling fingers, remembering how close she had come to using it upon herself. Then she wondered if anyone else had survived.

  Standing brought her pain. She could barely straighten, and her bruises were terribly sore. Her wounded leg gave under her on the first step and only a hasty grab at a tree trunk saved her from falling, but after that she gritted her teeth and hobbled on, every sense straining as the twilight thickened.

  A flock of carpals fluttered into the tree branches overhead, squawking and tearing at each other with their blue, razor-sharp beaks and talons. Relief swept over Costa. If the animals were beginning to gather in to feast on the carnage, the attackers must be gone. She hobbled faster to the edge of the clearing where the camp had been pitched yesterday evening. Well-worn game trails led down to a brackish stream, and she had not wanted to camp in this place. But since orph mating did not commence for another month and the big beasts were unlikely to be running amok, she had given in to the Kublai’s desires. Sonic protectors had kept the kicats roaring in frustration all around the perimeters during the nights, but His Supreme Glory had slept undisturbed. Now he probably slept forever.

  Angrily Costa pushed away rising guilt. Janal might have assigned extra protection had she ever reported in her conversation with the Omcri courier, but even an army of patrollers would have found it impossible to deal with jungle snipers.

  Crouching by the edge of the clearing, Costa scanned the camp with care, her heartbeat quickening at the sight of purplish blood and entrails strewn everywhere. Tents, collapsed and burning, sent dark plumes of acrid smoke into the steamy air. She coughed, startling a half-grown kicat which had trotted into sight. It crouched a moment, lashing its tail, then snarled and leaped on the body of a guard to rip off a leg. Costa stood up with a shout, and the beast sprang away, snarling, but she knew it would soon return with more of its kind. The jungle moved swiftly to a feast; she did not have much time.

  Overhead the carpals screamed and jostled each other on the lowest branches. She cursed them for their noise. As rapidly as she could, she hobbled across the camp, fighting to keep her stomach from heaving at the sight of so much death. She found no one alive, but neither did she come upon the body of the Kublai. Hope flared within her. Had it been an abduction instead? If so, she would bring him safely back or die in the attempt.

  In the wreckage of the supply tents, she found a small sonic protector that seemed undamaged and soon filled a pack with a medikit, rations, and fresh charges for her strifer. Then she started a count of the bodies, forcing herself to finish the grisly task. None of her scouts had come through. Some of the braver guards had died beyond the camp along with their attackers, who wore nondescript mercenary tunics carefully lacking any identification. She traced each trail of blood out to its end, using her keen sense of smell as the light failed even more. In the distance a kicat coughed, bringing her upright with an exhausted sigh. She could look no longer. Only Bessam and the Kublai were unaccounted for. Costa rubbed her forehead wearily. She would make camp in the safety of the trees, and in the morning at first light she would mark the tra
il of the attackers.

  She turned away from the game trail to push quietly through the undergrowth in search of a suitable muyar tree where she could sleep safe from predators and the trilid parasites that bored through wood or bone with equal appetite. Nothing ate muyar wood. The wind shifted again, bringing her an unexpected scent of chemicals. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at the camp, snapping up her innermost eyelid in an effort to pierce through the gloom. Drawing her strifer, she turned back cautiously. The smell came from the sacrifice box which had tumbled out of a transport sled during the battle. It now lay dented, its closure seal broken. She eased up to it, not certain she wanted to face another unpleasant surprise today. Against the deepening pools of shadow, she could see an escaping curl of mist rising from the edges of the lid.

  Costa frowned and gripped her strifer more tightly as she tugged at the lid. It sprang up against her palm with a sudden rush of air, making her flinch back. As she did so, the box tipped further, crashing over onto its side. A body rolled out at her feet. She cried out as a limp arm slapped around her ankle, then she caught hold of herself, panting and ashamed.

  The raw scent of human blood curled through her nostrils. She knelt and rolled the body over. It was a man, cold and damp from chemicals, but breathing. She could barely see now; she had no time to delay here further. The jungle was coming alive around her.

  She glanced back at a faint rustle behind her and abruptly switched off the torch. Slinging the pack over her shoulder, she tied one end of her line about the man before tossing the other up into the branches. Her blind aim seemed to go true. After an exploratory tug she dug in her heels and started hauling him up into the treetop. It wasn’t a muyar, but it would have to do.