Croma Venture: (The Spiral Wars Book Five)

by Joel Shepherd

  “Human fleet knows of this deal,” Pram added. “The scale of the suffering in reeh space is immense. Public sympathy would be high, and also public fear. It is a complication leaders on all sides would rather avoid. The Spiral has too many of its own troubles to be concerned of the fate of peoples beneath the reeh.”

  Naki rumbled something in Togiri. “A pity the machines did not expand in the reeh’s direction far enough to exterminate them during their time,” spoke the translator. Erik could only agree. And then reflected just how much talk there’d been lately, in his earshot, of entire sentient races that deserved extermination. True or not, it was alarming.

  “Nearly two hundred years ago,” said Dega, “my great, great grandmother led an expedition to the Spiral, to plead for assistance from whoever would listen. They attempted caution, and a hidden route via small points of dark mass that might not be watched so closely. But the Croma Wall is impenetrable, all points are monitored, and they were intercepted.

  “But my ancestors had the good fortune to be passing through the space of Croma’Dokran. Croma’Dokran’s great leader, Tol’do’ra, was sympathetic, but croma law required all corbi envoys to be halted. The ship was taken, but my ancestors were not returned to occupied space. We were allowed to stay here, and we were granted this land, and this lovely home. We have been here ever since.”

  “And you are allowed to petition the croma to help your people?” Erik pressed.

  “Regularly,” Dega announced. They emerged from the garden path, and the stables were before them, Dega’s relatives unsaddling and washing their mounts. “It does not please the other clans. But we are in contact with corbi rebels, and they provide good information on reeh movements. We have been allowed limited contact with Dobruta, as you have seen, but the other clans would not like it were it known.”

  Croma space was composed of about ninety major clans, Erik knew. Croma’Dokran was neither large nor small on that scale, but they were obviously recalcitrant toward the Croma’Rai. Getting involved with them was a risk, but he did not see that Phoenix had another choice. If they were to get access to these corbi rebels, Croma’Dokran were the only segment of the croma wall that would allow it. But recalcitrant political entities usually broke larger laws only when they saw advantage in return — usually something that would advance their own domestic power. As always, Phoenix was risking prying open some enormous can of worms if this whole thing was discovered. As to what Croma’Dokran and Sho’mo’ra thought to get out of it, he could only wonder.

  Through the stables, soft earth beneath the visitors’ boots and the musty smell of animals and fodder. Some young corbi ran out to greet them, gambolling on all fours then leaping on each other’s shoulders in enthusiasm… but straightened out quickly when the aliens reached them, and offered a crossed-wrist greeting that Erik thought had to be croma in origin. Erik and the others repeated it back, then Erik extended his own hand, and the corbi took it, cautiously, as though wondering if they were doing it right. It was a powerful grip with long fingers, and though much shorter, each of these youngsters were impressively wide at the shoulders. They wore neat tunics, and while their bodies looked faintly ‘animal’ to a human, their dress-sense and the obvious intelligence of those large eyes were all sentience.

  Dega made the introductions — more cousins, nephews, nieces and friends. There had been thirty-one corbi on that initial envoy vessel two hundred years ago — all unrelated, he explained. Upon realising that their desperate venture would go no further, seven had resolved to go home and continue the fight against the reeh. The remaining twenty-four had paired off — genders being roughly approximate — and determined that the best thing they could do for their people was to maintain the one foothold the corbi possessed in the territory of otherwise uncaring neighbours.

  Children had been born, and at first their croma hosts had imposed a population limit of two hundred, not wishing to see the little colony grow to become an independent alien state in their midst. But many of those corbi children, upon reaching adolescence and learning of their peoples’ predicament had become frustrated at the prospect of spending their entire lives in isolated luxury while the mother race suffered and died under occupation. Most of those had found a way back to occupied space, for while the croma forbade movement into the Spiral, they did not prevent it heading home.

  And so, Dega explained as he removed his riding boots in the vestibule from the stables, and invited his guests to do the same, the population limit of two hundred had not been necessary, as numbers had never grown beyond a hundred and forty. There remained enough genetic diversity for now, though barely, and croma genetic technology could assist in that anyhow, providing an additional random variation to keep the population healthy. This had become especially necessary, he added wryly, as lately there’d been too many cases of cousins marrying cousins, despite his own strict disapproval as head of the clan.

  With their boots removed, Erik and the guests were offered soft-skin slippers from a great assortment by the door. Finding a pair that fit comfortably, Erik wandered into a lovely stone kitchen, with a big bench and table and lots of corbi cooking. There were more greetings, and happy talking, laughing and scolding as fresh food was prepared and ancient wooden stoves blazed, fed by logs from a pile by a wall. Children scampered, and stared at the aliens, and stole snacks off the table, chased away by jovial parents wielding wooden spoons. A household pet like a small, long-armed monkey with big ears ventured beneath the table to scoop up fallen scraps.

  Pram said hello to the children, who gathered in amazement, finding tavalai far stranger than humans. Erik wandered the open kitchen and dining room. It truly was a museum piece, wooden beams for a ceiling, dark stone walls and old wooden furniture. Only the wall photographs were modern, holographic if one had the right glasses on, showing faces of corbi, some old, some young. Another showed a blue world, streaked with white cloud. Beautiful, like inhabited worlds everywhere. And one more photograph, of huge trees like looming towers in a city, and a spear of bright sunlight falling from the distant canopy.

  “Rando,” said Dega from his side, solemnly as he came to join him. “Our homeworld.”

  “It looks so beautiful,” said Erik, with feeling. “Humans feel your pain. We lost our homeworld too.”

  “I know,” said Dega, leaning long, thinly-haired forearms on the dining table. “We have done research on humans. Two weeks ago, they told us you were coming. I’m very sorry, but at least your nightmare is over. Ours continues.”

  Trace wandered away from the kitchen and living room gathering as soon as possible. Big social gatherings were not her thing, and she figured that a socialite like Erik would learn far more about their hosts in such an environment than she would. But wandering the huge house without an escort would have been mannerless and possibly alarming, so she headed back outside to the stables. She could feel the extra gravity in her legs now, an ache as though she’d completed more squats than usual in the gym.

  The stables were empty of corbi, animals groomed and feeding contentedly in their stalls. No automation anywhere, she noted with approval as she strolled, her assault rifle still over her shoulder, so natural and simple a weight that she’d nearly forgotten she was carrying it. But just as well she’d removed the armour — that would have been very out of place. The entire fortress was far too large for corbi — the doorways high, halls wide, corbi were dwarfed by it all, yet somehow managed to fill it with bustling energy and conversation.

  Now she heard the sound of galloping, coming from out on the grassy slope. A chu came into view, slowing as it reached the soft earth of the stables floor, coming to a trot. Astride rode a corbi on a leather saddle, a long firearm in a sheath beside the stirrup, and big saddlebags stuffed with something feathery. The corbi stared at her from the trotting steed in what might have been alarm. Surely all the corbi in this odd clan knew that they’d have alien visitors today?

  Trace raised her hand in greeting.
The corbi replied in kind, cautiously, but did not stop. The chu trotted on to a stable door further down, where its rider dismounted with an expert leap, and set about removing harness and saddle. This corbi had chosen not to join the main bunch in greeting the aliens. Sensing there was something to learn here, Trace strolled over.

  “Hello,” she said. Again the corbi gave her a wary look, arms full of saddle and heavy saddlebags. Pointed to one ear, indicating the absence of an earpiece, and went to the stable door to deposit the saddle on an outside bench. The chu looked skittishly at Trace, who backed up two steps so as not to alarm it. Trace pulled the little belt speaker from her pocket, put the AR glasses on her face and blinked the active icon to align the device. “Hello,” she repeated, as the rider returned to the animal.

  “Torda,” said the speaker.

  Again the wary look. “Torda,” the corbi agreed… she, Trace decided. This corbi was a little slimmer across the shoulders. Being similarly descended from simians, like humans and barabo, Trace felt that was a much safer gender assumption than with non-simian species.

  “My name is Trace,” said Trace. “I’m from the warship Phoenix. I command Phoenix’s marine company.”

  The female corbi replied, without enthusiasm. “I know,” said Trace’s earpiece. Young, Trace guessed further. The long mane of hair was glossy and fresh, her wide-eyed face and small mouth free from lines. Pretty, too. To human eyes, at least. “I’m Tiga.”

  She fetched a hose from against the wall, in that fast, athletic way young corbi seemed to do everything, and began hosing down her mount, rubbing with a large cloth. The animal tossed its head and stamped with evident enjoyment. Trace stepped to the saddlebags and saddle, heavy upon the bench by the door. She undid a buckle and looked inside. Within were feathery bodies — plump birds, perhaps five in this bag, as many in the other. What had killed them was obvious. She pointed to the big firearm sheath on the saddle side.

  “Do you mind?” Tiga looked, then returned attention to her wet animal with what might have been a shrug. Trace placed her own rifle against the bench, then pulled Tiga’s weapon from its sheath. It was an antique — a double-barrelled shotgun, not especially fancy or expensive like some antiques, just dull and functional. She cracked the breech and examined the mechanism, then snapped it back again. Put the unloaded weapon to her shoulder and tested its balance, and how it swung when she turned to track a moving target. With a shotgun shell as large as would fit in these barrels, a marksman would not need to be a particularly good shot out to fifty metres. But beyond that, the shooter should really be leaving game birds alone, because the dispersal became wide enough that they might not die with a single shot. Still, to get ten of them in a single outing was impressive, considering how they must have scattered after the first few shots. To judge by the amount of sweat on Tiga’s animal, it had probably taken her all day. “This is a good haul for an old weapon. Where did you go?”

  “There’s a place,” said Tiga, pointing vaguely with the washcloth hand. “On the hill slopes. Several places, actually. You can’t shoot them over the water, not on your own. You’ll never get them back. But on the slope, you make enough noise, they fly from the undergrowth.”

  “The croma don’t feed you?”

  Tiga made a disgusted face, moving to her mount’s other side. “They feed us plenty. I’d rather get my own food.”

  Trace cracked the barrel once more and held it over her forearm, butt tucked under her armpit. “Your weapon of choice?” she asked.

  “The croma don’t let us have anything better,” said Tiga, with what might have been sarcasm. “You could shoot a croma over fifty with that and he’d get back up. Over a hundred and he’d barely feel it. Is that Tul’do in there?” Glancing toward the kitchen.

  “Yes,” said Trace. “You know Tul’do well?”

  “He’s fine. He does what he’s told. Like all croma.”

  “And what about you?”

  Tiga gave her another wary look. Then turned off the hose, took it back to its wall hook, and went into the stable to get a dry cloth. “You’re here to do more diplomacy, aren’t you?” she asked dully, rubbing the chu dry.

  “Have many Spiral species come here to do diplomacy with Dega?” Trace asked.

  “Some. None of it’s allowed, the Croma’Rai would be angry if they knew. But no one talks to us corbi, so they think it’s safe to let us all see it.”

  “You don’t think diplomacy does any good?”

  “It’s why we’re here,” said Tiga, and now the anger was clear in her voice. “Our people die in their millions back on Rando, and we sit here, riding chu and eating nice food in a museum.”

  Trace nodded slowly. She liked this young woman. If this were her, stuck in this situation, she’d be thinking much the same thing. “You don’t think anyone from the Spiral is ever going to help your people?”

  “Dega says they will, one day. He says we have to stay here because we’re the only ones they can talk to, and without us there’ll be no line of communication to the Spiral at all.”

  “He’s probably right,” said Trace.

  “Dega doesn’t want to get help,” Tiga muttered. “He just wants to keep living the nice life. He likes it here, he’s lord of the house. He inherited it from his mother, who inherited it from her father. If someone came along who actually wanted to help, he might have to join the fight.”

  Trace didn’t doubt that it could be true. But it also sounded like the kind of thing an angry teenager might say, accusing her elders unfairly. “What if I told you that we’re not here just to talk?” Trace asked.

  Tiga did not stop drying. “What, then?”

  “We’ve been told some scientists in the corbi resistance might be the most knowledgeable about reeh technology. We need their help. I think the plan might be to go and ask them directly.”

  Tiga stopped, and stared. “You’re going across the wall?”

  Trace nodded. “Might be. Depending on what Dega can tell us.”

  “And what then?” Immediately, astonishment was replaced by suspicion. “What do the corbi get for helping you?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” said Trace. “But if you come and join the talks instead of being angry out here, maybe we can think of something together.”

  Lisbeth was past tired of waiting when the big shuttle’s ramp finally lowered, and Gesul strode down the incline in a sweep of black robes. His senior officials followed, then their senior aides, flanked by guards in Domesh black and Togreth in green, others in ceremonial colour more typical of parren. Their standards flapped in the cool, humid air that swirled from outside, carried by flanking officials and denoting various old things that House Harmony custom thought important to say.

  At the correct moment, Lisbeth descended, hands at her middle to keep the sleeves aligned, step moderate and with a minimum of heel to keep the gown smooth where its hem swept just above the ankles. Orun, her Chief of Communications, walked on her left, Semaya in mellow gold on her right, while Timoshene and his Domesh guard followed, and others of Gesul’s inner circle formed on their right and left flanks. Parren assault shuttles could be huge, and this was one of the larger ones, multiple levels inside and many hundreds of officials in their ceremonial best aligning to deboard.

  Directly behind Lisbeth’s small department, alloy-clawed feet clicking and scratching on the landing pad as they left the ramp, came Liala and her two escorts, Dse-Pa and Dse-Ran. And it was one of the most extraordinary things Lisbeth had ever seen, that the arrayed lines of House Fortitude guards awaiting them did not even look, but stared directly ahead as a trio of drysines from the pages of some ancient parren history book came walking by.

  Liala’s body was nothing like Styx’s — the body of a simple combat drone, a little larger and more supple than those Lisbeth had seen, with bigger forelegs mounting vibro-blades, a low-mounted head carapace, and twin shoulder-mounted cannon that House Fortitude had not forbidden given that all of House Harmony�
��s leadership company came in the spirit of peace… and peace, among parren, meant armed to the teeth. By now Lisbeth was quite accustomed to this parren logic. After all, only an enemy would demand that a guest disarm.

  Lisbeth held her head level as she looked about — an acquired skill among parren, managing to take things in without breaking the discipline of a formal march. Above this vast landing pad loomed numerous glorious old buildings, enormous in the style of a great capital, architecture powerful enough to denote a fortress but adorned with soaring arches and domes that suggested a palace. Above those buildings loomed sheer cliffs that rose perhaps a kilometre into the air before vanishing in veils of white mist. The air fuzzed with the lightest rain, and upon the high cliffs water spilled and ran, suggesting heavier precipitation higher up.

  “Lisbeth,” Liala ventured in her inner ear uplinks. “Shonedene is quite beautiful.”

  “Very beautiful, Liala,” Lisbeth formulated in reply. Liala, unlike Styx, was full of such observations.

  The great procession entered an equally enormous aircraft hangar, built into the rock of the mountainside beneath the city buildings above. The hangar floor was filled with uniformed parren among the shuttles and military aircraft. House Harmony ceremonial garb had robes and sleeves, some bright and colourful, others like the Domesh spartan and subdued, but all emphasising a certain mystic spirituality that transcended the physical. The House Fortitude welcoming party was armoured, gold and silver breastplates, ornamental arm guards and crested helmets. There were old polearms and new rifles, an array of factions denoting the width and breadth of House Fortitude history, some of which Lisbeth recognised from her studies but none that she’d seen up close in person.

  What an empire of ideas and history parren entered when they phased from one house to another, she thought. She recalled her own experience at college, new to her engineering degree, encountering the university’s prestigious traditions, acceptance into her sorority house (all had been clamouring for the presence of a Debogande, so the hazing had been laughably minimal) and gazing about at the facilities, dormitories, classrooms and libraries that would be her home for the next four years.