The Omcri Matrix

by Deborah Chester

  A still figure in the umber robes of Kanta sat there. The unsteady fall of light gleamed off his shaven, blood-crossed brow and threw his face into deep shadow from which two eyes glittered with an intensity matched only by Jillian’s own.

  She stepped forward, funneling her nervousness into anger.

  “I have been kept waiting too long,” she said, her shrill voice echoing stridently off the circular archways. “My power units are seriously drained—”

  “You came alone?” asked the priest in a deep voice, rough with enough menace to make her heart thump hard against the walls protecting it.

  “Alone,” she said, clinging to the arrogance she had adopted long ago as protection. Better that those around her should hate her than pity her, or underestimate her. “My drones wait with the lytcar.”

  “That which was discussed…you will do?”

  “If you meet my price.”

  The priest turned his head. “Anran?”

  A tall figure stepped through one of the archways, booted feet scraping grittily over the stone. He stopped beside Jillian, towering over her. His skin was extremely pallid as though no blood of any color coursed through his veins, and his eyes…She shivered, her heart lurching as Anran stared down at her. His eyes were two black voids. To gaze into them made her dizzy as though she were spiraling into infinity.

  “Omcri,” she whispered, drawing back.

  The priest smiled, revealing a row of filed teeth and gums stained scarlet. “Not at all. Anran is one of the chief researchers at the Archives here. He is also a fine surgeon.”

  She gasped, her eyes flying back to the lean giant beside her.

  “There are many ancient surgical techniques in the Kanta rituals which require study,” said Anran in a toneless voice.

  “You are the one?” she said doubtfully. “You are to be my doctor? The finest physicians in the galaxy have examined me, and the result is that I now stand here at the mercy of machines. Half of my organs are artificial. I walk only through the assistance of suspensors. I represent the finest work of eminent cosmetic surgeons, neurologists, and medical engineers, and still I am nothing but a deformed mess of clanking parts subject to replacement every four months. Can you restructure me as this representative of Kanta has promised? Can you make me a whole, normal, functioning human being? I want the truth, Anran!”

  Anran flinched, then regarded her with a disquieting lack of expression. “It can be done.”

  She flung open her town robe. “Then begin now!”

  “Wait!” said the priest, rising as Anran reached out to her. “First, good lady, let us finish the business at hand. When our task is done, you may have the services of Anran. Surely, you can find within yourself the patience of a few more days.”

  How many? she nearly screamed, but curbed herself, drawing in several deep breaths before she could finally nod.

  “Very well,” she said reluctantly. “I see I have no choice.”

  “We do not coerce you, good lady.”

  “You do not have to.” She lifted her chin. “What are your instructions?’

  Anran turned and abruptly walked away as though he had received a dismissal.

  The priest ignored his departure. “Do you know exactly where your parent has imprisoned the Kublai?”

  “In our villa.”

  “On the northern continent?”

  “No. Our villa in Beros. On the Street of Harmony, Stratum Four.” She blinked, recalling the jerk from sleep as her father woke her to show her his prisoner. Until that moment she did not have the faintest inkling of how desperate Wob Nogales was to stop the Kublai’s expedition from succeeding. And if he found out that she was now betraying him…She swayed.

  “What is wrong?” The priest caught her arm with a hand that was dirty and rough enough to snag the costly fabric of her town robe.

  “My heart…” She shut her eyes, letting herself lean upon the priest as her regulators struggled to readjust to the leap of metabolism. “I must sit down. I…there are spare power cells in my lytcar. Summon my drones.”

  The priest gave an order to one of his silent minions and dragged her to his chair. “If this is a clever ploy to betray us, good lady, you will—”

  “Don’t be absurd!” She gasped for breath. “What need have I to betray you?”

  “You are betraying your parent. One act of treason begets another—”

  “My father is taking a foolish risk. Even the neutrality laws of Playworld will not be able to protect him from extradition if he is caught abducting the Kublai.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps made her look up eagerly. It was R7, coming at last with the precious power cells.

  Jillian glared at the priest. “Replacement requires disrobing. Where may I have privacy?”

  His eyes narrowed distrustfully as he tucked his stained hands into his sleeves. “We shall vacate this chamber for a few moments only.”

  “It will be sufficient. Go!”

  They left in silence. She drew in a desperate breath of air tainted by the faint smells of death and rot and opened her garments for R7.

  “Hurry!”

  The drone worked swiftly, removing her suspensors which left her sagging helplessly in the chair, and switched her power unit to auxiliary in order to remove the expended cells. She hated auxiliary with its ten short minutes of capability. Suppose R7 suddenly developed a malfunction and could not complete its task? She had been drilled in the procedure to free her from this fear. But the anxiety persisted, even to the point of convincing her that she would make a fatal mistake were she to rely on herself.

  “Hurry!” she said again, gripping the stone arms of the chair. Time seemed to rush away from her, even though the rational part of her mind assured her only a few seconds had elapsed.

  R7 chimed agreeably, never faltering in its work as it replaced one power cell, tested it, then replaced the other. It switched her off auxiliary, and Jillian closed her eyes as she grimly passed through that hellish moment of absolute helplessness before the new cells booted power back up to nominal levels. She felt her heart lurch, falter, then resume a strong beat. Sighing, Jillian lifted a shaking hand to her brow while R7 replaced the power cells in the suspensor units. It refitted them around her and helped her rearrange her clothing.

  “Do not return to the lytcar, R7,” she said. “I do not know how long I must remain here. It may be necessary to replace the power cells again.”

  “Accord,” chimed R7, with one of the few words of vocabulary she permitted in its programming. Unlike her friends, she hated chattering drones and was never amused by their synthesized accents.

  “You have recovered, good lady?” inquired the rough voice of the priest.

  Jillian straightened herself at once. “Yes, but I warn you that I cannot survive many such shocks. Will this take much longer?”

  “Only long enough for you to give us the plans of the villa and the exact location of the Kublai inside it.”

  “Never!” she said sharply. “Our security system is both elaborate and expensive. I will not give you the access code.”

  A scowl creased the priest’s face. He came up to tower over her chair. “What games do you play?”

  “No games, fool. I will bring the Kublai out.”

  “You?” The priest showed his filed teeth. “You, good lady, are unlikely to manage such a feat.”

  “My drones are programmed to obey me independently of my father’s servants,” she said, barely holding onto her temper. “Choose a rendezvous point. I shall exchange the Kublai there for Anran.”

  “You distrust us? You would not bring His Supreme Glory here?”

  “The distance is too far. Neutral ground is reassuring for both of us.”

  “Cleverly spoken, lady. But I think we shall stick to our original plan.”

  “No!” She gestured in anger. “My father will know if the villa is breached. He will—”

  “And what, good lady, will your parent do when
he finds the Kublai gone without any evidence of a break-in? He will suspect you. We seek to protect you from suspicion.”

  She sat there, her breathing ragged with stress. “And what will he suspect when he finds his infallible security system broken?”

  “Nothing is infallible,” said the priest with another smile. “For your peace of mind we shall leave Omcri traces behind. Your parent has employed Omcri couriers in the past; he knows they can enter many places denied to creatures of…other…species.”

  She shivered at the thought of an Omcri in the house. Perhaps she had been a greater fool than Wob. Perhaps she should never have come here. But then she looked at the expended power cells in R7’s hand and shuddered with loathing. No. She must be free of this useless husk of a body. She must not back away from this opportunity.

  “Very well,” she said slowly, frowning. “I shall have to obtain the code which unlocks the main systems. The Kublai is being held in the north wing, second floor. An additional security system has been engaged around his suite, and he is heavily drugged for his own protection.”

  “Excellent. Our appreciation is great, good lady, for this assistance.”

  She looked hard at the priest as she stood up to go. “I should be able to get the code within a day, possibly two. Do not grow impatient and doubt me.”

  “When you have it, do not transmit it,” he said sharply, his eyes glittering at her.

  She drew in a breath. “When you send someone for it, be sure Anran accompanies him. And Anran must be prepared to stay with me. I shall see that he has all the facilities he requires.”

  “Agreed,” said the priest. He beckoned a shadowy figure forward, and with a start she recognized the pale-robed figure of an Omcri. “Now…To be sure you do not change your mind in the next two days, good lady…”

  “No!” She drew back as the Omcri approached her. “Keep that thing away! I’ll not change my mind. Fools! R7, protect me—”

  The Omcri lifted a gloved hand, and R7 froze in mid-step, internal parts whirring loudly in frustration against whatever invisible force held it. She smelled overloading circuitry and screamed desperately:

  “R7! Stop protection! Cancel!”

  The drone shut down, and the Omcri came toward her. She backed away, shaking her head.

  “This is unnecessary! I came to you freely. I have too much at stake in this to—No!”

  Her scream echoed shrilly through the chamber as the Omcri caught her forearm. A crystalline knife flashed out, then paused in midair over her wrist.

  “Why are you stopping?” demanded the priest. “Cut her!”

  Jillian stood there, prisoner to the crushing strength of that gloved hand, her heart thudding with erratic violence. Her eyes could not leave the knife poised above her. There was a certain sinister beauty to it. The blade, curved and hollow, shimmered whitely with the luminescent substance within. Omcri poison, she thought and cried out again.

  Slowly the powerful fingers uncurled from her arm. She yanked free and backed away, trembling uncontrollably.

  “Omcri!” shouted the priest in anger. “She must bleed. Her blood must mingle with the poison in two threads of scarlet and white, entwined as her will must be entwined to ours.”

  The Omcri turned somewhat jerkily to face him. “Her will not desired. That which this one serves commands it not.”

  “I am whom you serve, Omcri!”

  “Not so, Archus,” said the dual-timbred voice. Faceless and implacable, the Omcri stood in the center of the chamber and spread its hands wide. “Your hour, small. That which is greater, comes soon.”

  “Then give me the knife,” said Archus, his face a hellish mask in the flaring light. He snatched the weapon from the Omcri’s hand and rushed at Jillian.

  Frozen, she watched him come, seeing the madness in his eyes and the spittle spraying through his bared teeth. The jaded boredom of her life seemed suddenly a small complaint. Even her mechanical body, loathesome as it was, seemed precious. The whisper of her breathing regulator hissed in and out, in and out, while almost leisurely, the Omcri turned and spread its arms wide. Twin points of light, green and incandescent, flashed from the black void beneath the cowl, and with a shrill scream the priest crumpled at Jillian’s feet. The knife shattered on the dirty stone, leaking the poison which hissed and steamed a cold mist into the air.

  The others fled the chamber, leaving Jillian alone with the Omcri which glided forward now. She stumbled back, only the support of her suspensors saving her from falling, and pressed her back against the leprous wall. A thin finger of the poison ran under the outflung arm of Archus, and his body twitched convulsively.

  “Archus.” The Omcri lifted its palm, and Archus suddenly jerked upright as though pulled by invisible strings. He stood there with his umber robe slipping half off his shoulder, his head lolling horribly to one side. His eyes were open and sightless; his tongue protruded in death.

  Jillian pressed a hand to her throat, unable to breathe despite the steady hiss of her regulators. The edges of her consciousness began to fray.

  “Are you g-going to k-kill me, too?”

  The Omcri did not look at her. “Without necessity, nothing is done.”

  Her panic lessened. She swallowed, realizing the Omcri had saved her twice now. “Thank you,” she said, straightening. As long as she did not look at the corpse of Archus standing in front of her, she could piece her confidence back together. “I am glad you killed the priest.”

  “Actions can be undone.” The Omcri dropped its hand abruptly. Archus swayed as though his body would crumple again, then stiffened. The priest lifted his head, blinked, and instantly closed his gaping mouth.

  Jillian bit down hard on a scream. Something within her cardioactivator abruptly burned out. She felt the grind before she heard it. Her heartbeat skittered, and pain knifed through her abdomen. There are other ways to die than by an assassin’s blade, she thought, clutching herself as Archus turned blankly away from her and walked from the chamber. His eyes were black voids, as Anran’s had been.

  Her head lifted. “You saved my life, Omcri,” she said with a shaking voice that failed to achieve its usual arrogance. “Will you now let me go? Will you let me have Anran as agreed?”

  “No bargain is kept now,” said the Omcri, advancing upon her.

  “But you must keep it!” she cried, raising clenched fists. “I must have that surgery! I can’t go on living like this—”

  “Life is of least importance. Reveal true location of Kublai. Previous lie unacceptable.”

  “No! I won’t! Do you hear? I’ll tell you nothing!”

  The wall jammed against her back, and she nearly slipped on the dust-slick stone underfoot. Her eyes flicked back and forth across the room in search of anything, any weapon which might save her. But it was useless, and her soul despaired at the futility of trying.

  “Don’t kill me. Please don’t do what you d-did to them,” she babbled as the Omcri grasped her shoulders.

  She felt her own frailty beneath its strength. The coldness hanging upon it seemed to freeze her eyes open, locking them upon the void that should have been its face. And all the expensive training in how to erect mental protection and privacy barriers failed to help her as a cold, black finger of thought probed into the recesses of her brain.

  Wob Nogales could not sleep. He tossed and turned, dipping and floating on the elaborate suspensor bed which kept his massive bulk comfortably in midair. The entire past week had been sleepless, but that was natural. He could go round the clock whenever he had a deal on line. Round the clock…odd how expressions remained in use long after anyone understood why people used to think of time as circular. But, nevertheless, the deal was completed and here he floated, still wide awake.

  He considered worry as a factor. Pros and cons had been weighed. No, he would still have ordered the Kublai abducted if he had this month over again. The men he hired were professionals, smoothly efficient, leaving no survivors in their wa
ke, long since paid and exited off-planet. No one outside the villa knew of the Kublai’s presence here, and no one inside had any reason to care at all about the fate of a petty ruler from a system parsecs away. There should be no worry.

  Still, he could not sleep. It was not hunger; it was not overindulgence of stimulants. His newest doctor had scared him sufficiently last month to make him follow his prescribed diet. He did not need a woman. And he was sleepy. Therefore, nothing of a physical nature was keeping him awake.

  Guilt perhaps.

  He snorted forcefully enough to send himself dipping toward the floor. Why should he feel guilty? That damnable little Kublai had cost him plenty. Coming here with some ridiculous superstition and stirring up all his Ishut workers as a consequence. Wob had enough trouble normally from the Kanta priests inciting his Ishuts to rebel from the hand that kept them occupied decently, clothed, sheltered, and fed with tranquilized food so that they had some peace from their normal instability. At least with the Kublai’s expedition out of the way, he needn’t fear being shut down by the safety board. The whole problem was over, or would be once he got the Kublai off-planet. And he had a plan worked out for that, too.

  In the meantime, he had to keep the Kublai hidden somewhere. His villa here in Beros seemed ideally bold. After all, Commander Janal of the Planet Patrol had dined here tonight along with seventy other guests of prominence and distinction. As long as he did not act guilty, no guilt would be attached to him.

  But the more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea of having the Kublai right here under the same roof with him. Jillian, whose advice he relied upon, had proven to be particularly cross and unhelpful. She was probably going through one of her moods, or else suffering a side-effect from a new drug. But he didn’t like her reaction to his little surprise tonight. And perhaps that was keeping him awake.