14
The three humans and two tavalai followed the smaller croma up the meadow path and through the huge door. Within was a high stone hallway, lit by rows of lights that danced and flickered as though to simulate the naked flame of torchlight.
“It doesn’t take a PhD to conceive what croma history might have looked like,” Romki murmured as they walked on wide flagstones. “Most of the Spiral’s species reach back to their past for identity the further they venture from their original home.”
“Their medieval period must have been something,” Erik ventured, gazing up at the big tapestries that plunged down the walls, displaying four-storey-tall symbols that might have been writing. “Imagine their massed battles before firearms.”
“This is not the seat of power for the Croma’Dokran Clan,” said Romki, “I understand it’s their ancestral seat. Like a manor house, it’s the private residence of the ruling family, but not where government is conducted. Thus all the old symbolism, I’m sure the house of government will be far more modern.”
His hushed, awed tone suggested a far greater excitement than he’d shown for the mission so far. “Glad you came after all, Stan?” Erik suggested.
“Remarkable, yes,” Romki breathed, glancing around to be sure that none of the enormous honour guard had followed them in. “Those big ones will be guarding the shuttles then?”
“They are,” Trace said calmly, AR glasses down and watching all her units’ activities. “All non-threatening.”
“If they’re bigger, they’ll be older,” said Erik. “Age and greater rank doesn’t seem to fit with menial duty like honour guards, somehow.”
“Well first, we don’t know that it is menial duty,” Romki cautioned. “It could be very prestigious. And secondly, I don’t think those croma were really that old. They get a lot bigger.”
The leather-coated croma led them to an even larger cross-hallway, and turned right. The walls here were decorated with old weapons, exactly the medieval period that Erik had been thinking of. Big shields hung that were twice as tall as a human, in a number of designs, all ridiculously heavy. Some looked extremely old, no doubt treated to be age resistant, yet still thick with that millennia’s worth of decay. Then there were great clubs and pole arms big enough to crush a human into mince if wielded by a croma large enough.
“No spears,” Trace murmured, observing with curiosity as they passed. “Croma bodies are too tough, I guess they’d break.”
“And swords even moreso,” Romki agreed.
“Crossbow,” said Erik, indicating ahead. The crossbow was as big as he was, likely to have fired bolts the width of his thigh. It would have taken that much force to penetrate full croma armour. “Wow. You think the younger ones fought too?”
“Not in the front line,” Trace guessed. “Wouldn’t last long. I’d have the bigger ones up front, the younger and smaller for artillery, support and skirmishing. And you could only put a big croma on an elephant-equivalent, not a horse-equivalent, so the smaller ones would do all the flanking. I suppose they did have equivalent riding animals?”
“Yes, I believe so,” said Romki. “I had no idea you’d studied pre-technological warfare, Major.”
“There were classes at the Academy. Waste of time, but there were classes.” Romki and Erik exchanged amused glances.
The ancient hallway ended in a big elevator, and the young croma gestured all to climb aboard with him. The doors closed, and they rode it up, small figures on a vast car floor large enough to hold a truck. When they opened again, a new flagstone expanse confronted them — more of an ante-room before the great wall-to-ceiling curtains that blocked the way ahead. From within Erik could hear clanking steel and other activity, and the smell of something delicious cooking. The young croma halted, pointed to something on the wall and spoke in the snuffling grunts of this croma tongue.
“So’ma’ra,” spoke the translator. “Our great leader.”
The party stared, for mounted against the wall was the upper half of natural croma armour upon a mannequin of sorts. Croma armour seemed naturally segmented, Erik thought, with the upper half almost independent of the lower. The huge shoulders and chest plates here were lower to the ground, like a bust from human sculpture, the legs not required to show this figure’s grandiosity. This natural helmet armour had horns, sharp and wickedly curved, pointing forward like weapons.
“Is that real armour?” Erik asked quietly, unsure if it was wise to ask the young croma directly. “I mean… it looks…”
“Yes,” said Romki, “I think it’s natural armour.” He indicated along the wall, where another ten busts were arrayed. “It looks as though it is removed after death, to be displayed here.” He looked to the young croma. “So’ma’ra? A great leader?”
“Great leader,” the croma agreed, and beckoned them on to the next bust of armour. “Da’go’ra. Our great leader.”
“How old?” Romki asked. “Your great leader from how many years ago?”
“Our great leader,” the croma said solemnly, and moved them on to the next bust. “Tol’do’ra. Our great leader.”
“Mr Romki,” said Captain Pram, his low voice a little testy. “I am sure we are not meant to ask questions, but merely to appreciate the strength of Croma’Dokran’s history.” Romki ignored him, staring and fascinated.
Their tour brought them close to the huge curtain hangings, and Erik could feel heat radiating from somewhere behind. When the young croma brought them around the curtain’s edge, the heat blast hit them all in the face with the glare of a burning sun.
The flagstone room beyond was huge. Within was a deep firepit, aglow with black and orange coals in shimmering waves of heat. Above the pit was the biggest rotisserie Erik had ever seen, upon which was skewered a big animal about the size of a cow. It slowly rotated, driven by some motor at one end, legs bound in steel cord to keep them out of the coals. The expression on its face was somewhat horrific, skewer protruding from its protesting mouth. But the smell was amazing, and Erik’s mouth watered.
About the fire, young croma bustled, tending the coals and hauling large wooden trays. One young croma prepared even now to venture onto a steel platform above the coals, clad head-to-toe in thick heat-protection, like a worker in a blast furnace. A comrade handed him an enormous carving knife, and someone else prepared a tray on the end of a long pole. The intrepid croma beat himself once on the chest, as though psyching himself up, face entirely hidden behind goggles and cloth helmet, then he strode onto the platform above the coals, the air shimmering in blazing heat, and began slicing sizzling meat from the carcass. It fell in great chunks onto the tray held on the pole beneath his work, and when the tray was full it quickly withdrew as another replaced it.
“I guess we can say they’re not vegetarian,” Erik remarked.
The visitors’ guide let them watch for a moment, though croma expressions were too impassive to tell if he was pleased at their interest. Then they were beckoned on, past the fire-side activity and into the larger dining hall beyond. Or Erik suspected it was a dining hall — there was no central table, but rather a wide circle of large chairs, dominated by one enormous chair, twice the size of the others. That chair overlooked a series of arches, beyond which was a balcony above a stunning view of mountains, and the surrounding city of Ro’Gana. They were halfway up the peak overlooking the meadow where the landing pads were, and this residence, in the fashion of the croma love of fortified things, was built through the mountain, with the best view reserved for the dining hall.
As they admired the view, their croma guide walked behind them, and pulled back another set of great curtains. “Sho’mo’ra,” he said. “Our great leader.”
Erik turned, expecting to find yet another set of artfully displayed remains… and struggled to keep his jaw from dropping open. The croma revealed by the curtain’s withdrawal was at least four metres tall. His shoulders alone were wider than Erik was tall, and he held twin staves planted firmly on th
e flagstones, each grasped in a massive, armoured fist. He walked forward two steps, slow and ponderous, armour creaking and grinding audibly. No pants either, Erik noted — just a leather loincloth, or perhaps very large underwear. Pants would shred on the sharp edges of armoured calves, separate plates that turned spiky at the rear.
He halted, snorting great, heaving breaths, as though tired from his effort. The staves were to hold the arms up, Erik thought — the forearm plates had to make a huge weight on those old shoulders, contributing to the big croma’s hunched posture. Erik’s adrenaline-charged astonishment faded, to be replaced by a more somber feeling. At this size, surely everything was an effort — walking, sitting, sleeping. Croma never stopped growing, they just got larger and larger until it killed them. He gazed at the majestic being before him, and felt both awe, and sadness.
“Sho’mo’ra,” he said, and gave a small bow. It was not a common human gesture these days, but somehow it fit. Handshaking would be too familiar, and Sho’mo’ra’s palm was the size of his head anyhow. “Leader of Croma’Dokran. Thank you for seeing us.”
Sho’mo’ra snorted loudly, several times, from huge nostrils. For a moment Erik wondered if he was offended… but no, it seemed the great croma was simply getting enough air in prelude to speaking. When he spoke, it was in great, snorting coughs.
“Humans,” said the translator. “Tavalai. You are guests of Croma’Dokran. I hope you have not been bored by the young one.”
One enormous forearm moved with alarming speed, and gave their young croma escort a whack that knocked him backward two steps. Erik caught his breath, wondering if domestic violence and humiliation were the way of the croma, and thinking how disappointing that would be… but the young croma showed no sign of cowering or humiliation, having protected himself with crossed forearms, and now resuming his previous place with a dismissive gesture as though to show it was nothing.
Maybe it was just men messing around, punching each other’s shoulders, playing rough house games. Or perhaps it was more ritualistic than that, and that it was a young man’s place to accept such treatment stoically until he was an elder himself, in the expectation that it would be character building. Croma expressions were too impassive to say either way, and Erik had to remind himself of Romki’s usual admonition to humans watching non-human behaviour, not to look for familiar human motivations in aliens.
“We were not bored, Sho’mo’ra,” said Captain Pram. “This young croma has escorted us well.”
“You have come far,” said Sho’mo’ra. “We have much to discuss. But first, we will eat.”
All the Dobruta’s expertise on the croma said that there was nothing in the food that would hurt tavalai or human, and so they sat, guests on the circle side with backs to the view, while the croma arrayed opposite. Young croma moved with great trays of roasted meats and vegetable, to be locked onto each chair’s wooden arm in an arrangement that appeared traditional. Also traditional were alarmingly large, sharp knives, and a jug of sauce that made its rounds and was both delicious and stingingly hot, but only briefly. Erik thought of his family’s various trading acquaintances, and thought that a good trade in this sauce alone could make a lot of money.
Soon the high-altitude wind outside began to blow, and young croma strode to the balcony to secure door lattices, preserving some of the view while reducing the gale to a breeze, as the coals of the far firepit roared even brighter. Erik thought there were several ranks of croma doing the serving and door-securing, but he did not have the attention to spend on both that, and the conversation and food at the same time. Romki, however, watched the leather-coated croma with close interest as he chewed, no doubt seeing far more than Erik.
Pram recounted for Sho’mo’ra the deepynine attacks on Mylor Station, all things the croma already knew but were a politeness to hear again in person. Then he asked Sho’mo’ra if the Croma’Dokran scientists had yet arrived at a conclusion as to whether this deepynine nanotech weapon could be related to reeh technology. The biotech time bomb discovered in tavalai DNA was left unspoken of for now.
“These things are possible,” Sho’mo’ra replied, barely bothering to use his enormous knife and simply shovelling big slabs of meat into his mouth with a two-pronged fork. He chewed a long time, a circular motion like a cow… but several of those forward teeth were sharp incisors, not plant-chewing molars. Omnivores then, Erik thought. Croma history and evolution must have been fascinating. What did their prehistoric ancestors look like, to have arrived at this? Everything about them suggested big, heavy plant-eaters… so when had they started including meat in their diet? It was a struggle to keep his mind on the job, and ignore the intriguing distractions. “The reeh probe our defences at Sherek’To. Not long ago. Months. Great awards were won, our ninth Fleet commander gained great distinction for Croma’Dokran there.”
“All humans have heard of the brave croma who fight the reeh,” Erik exaggerated with a straight face. “Many humans would like to know these brave croma better.”
Sho’mo’ra considered him with sunken eyes, chewing slowly as the wind blew and shook the door lattices behind. “Humans and tavalai fight.” The big, brown eyes went from Erik to Pram, then back again. “Why?”
“Old history,” Erik said calmly, cutting a steaming vegetable in half. “Very old, and very sad. In better circumstances humans and tavalai could have been friends. But each of our ancestors, I think, made some very poor choices over the last thousand years. And today, their descendants pay the price.”
“Your ancestors have failed,” the big croma surmised. Romki gave Erik a wary look. Croma, Erik thought, did not seem big on subtlety.
“Not failed,” said Erik. “Human ancestors rebuilt humanity after most of our species died. Their success was spectacular. But incomplete.”
Sho’mo’ra grunted. Erik doubted it meant what a human might think it did. “Croma’Dokran ancestors have stood their ground for many thousands of years. Once there were a hundred clans and more in this region, but now all are one. Croma’Dokran.” He made a gesture of huge fists together.
“Croma’Dokran,” said the others around mouthfuls of food. Most were barely taller than two metres. Younger, then. None would be even close to Sho’mo’ra in rank. This was unlike a human meeting, where a human leader would be surrounded by his next-in-command to participate and ask questions. This was a single audience for Sho’mo’ra alone. And the youngsters were here to… what? Learn? Admire? Make up the ritual numbers?
“Do you fight the reeh often?” Trace asked around her own mouthful. She preferred light food, but wasn’t holding back.
“Small fights, often,” Sho’mo’ra agreed. “Large fights, every ten years, sometimes more. Very large, every century. Reeh are evil. Reeh only destroy. You have evil races too.”
“The sard aren’t any fun,” Erik admitted. “The krim weren’t either. But we dealt with them.”
A rumble from the croma. It might have been approval. “I know sard, a little. Krim, only in books. Reeh make sard look like ***.” The translator failed the last word. Sho’mo’ra seemed to guess it might, and made a gesture, one huge fist close to the ground, indicating something little.
“I get the idea,” Erik said sombrely. “Something small and cute.”
“Empire,” said Sho’mo’ra. “Big reeh empire. Hundreds of big systems. Croma don’t even know how big. No word comes from the other side. Many species, within reeh space. Many peoples. All gone, all disappeared. Vanished.”
“Exterminated?” Erik asked quietly. “Genocide? Does this word translate?”
“Yes, translate. No. Not this word. Disperse. This word translate?”
Erik frowned. “Disperse? Yes, disperse translates in English. How do you mean, disperse?”
“Genetics.” The big croma gazed at him, armour-hooded eyes unblinking. The other croma paused in their eating. Humans and tavalai did too. “Genetics different for species, humans, tavalai, croma. DNA different, structure
different. Different naturally. Reeh make different not naturally. Reeh play games with genetics. With their own genetics, with others. They take worlds. Take whole people. They disperse them.”
Erik felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with the wind that shook the doors to his rear. “They change their genetics,” he said quietly. It was the rumour he’d heard from Fleet Intel as well, on the rare occasion anyone spoke about the reeh. “For what purpose?”
“Make slave. Make experiment. Make die. Billions dispersed. Hundreds of billions. Evil. Humans agree?” Challengingly.
“Yes,” said Erik, with steel in his voice. “One day may you kill them all.” He took his cup of water off the chair holder and raised it. The croma did not copy, not knowing that gesture, but Trace and Romki did, then Pram and Naki too. They drank together, and the croma saw that it was some strange alien gesture of solidarity, and took their cups to drink as well. Erik glanced at Romki, wondering if he’d done the right thing. Romki nodded to him, which was good enough. Romki had been right to suggest the croma were relaxed with formality, and difficult to offend. It gave him leeway.
“Croma fight reeh,” Sho’mo’ra continued. “Fight reeh for thousands of years. Croma’Dokran lost ten thousand brave croma warriors this year. Last year, one hundred thousand civilians when outer system base hit. Last century, great war of Do’sha’mai, two billion Croma’Dokran die, nearly one hundred billion of all croma. But reeh die too, many, many more. Croma grow strong beneath the rocks that fall. One croma falls, ten more rise. The reeh have killed a croma fortress, only to raise a mountain. One day this mountain will crush them forever.”
There were more grunts of agreement from those around. Erik half-expected something more demonstrative to accompany such stirring speech — some war cries or hammering of knives on plates, but the croma kept eating, intense but calm. And he recalled how an Academy instructor on alien cultures had described humanity’s allies the chah’nas to the class, addressing students’ surprise that chah’nas, for all their ferocious reputation, rarely lost their temper.
Croma Venture: (The Spiral Wars Book Five) Page 27
