The Ruby Celeste Series - Box Set, books 1 - 3: Ghost Armada, Dire Kraken, and Church of Ife

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  “Should we follow?”

  Lars shook his head. “I’d rather not.”

  “We should go,” Charlotte muttered.

  Lars hesitated a moment, then took her hand. “Okay. But only over there. Just in case.”

  They wandered away to wait.

  3

  Rhod strode through Equity, around the maze of dividers. A pool of maroon seeped around an edge, and he saw in the corner of his eye a thick-bodied man slumped sideways against the makeshift wall.

  Rhod didn’t pause.

  The rear end of Equity had two doors: one to the small quarters that housed the men and women waiting to be sold, and one to the diminutive staff office. It was this second door that Rhod shoved through.

  This room was nothing compared to Equity’s front end. No white, no decor. Instead it was brown, lit by a single stained bulb that cast more murk than light. A couple of rusted filing cabinets were shoved against one wall, their drawers stuffed, and beside another was a cheap desk with a computer and telephone. A swivel chair was placed in front of the PC; its wheels were missing.

  Rhod hefted down into the seat and picked up the phone.

  Most of the phones across The Pharmacologist’s Eden were designed for one purpose: dialling the rest of the port. They could place calls to other locations on the hulking construction, but none outbound.

  Or that was, at least, what the staff were told.

  Rhod counted to five, then keyed in eight digits. He paused, and a moment later the tone pulsed, just once. That was what he wanted.

  He dialled and waited.

  “Hello?” someone answered. The voice was female, and scratchy even over the tinny sound of the line.

  “It’s Rhod Stein.”

  “Ah,” she said, drawing the noise out. “It’s been a while.”

  “I have a job for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “A woman called Ruby Celeste just stole a deckhand from me, then blew a hole in my SkyPort.”

  “And you want me to get the deckhand back?”

  “No, Imelda,” Rhod growled. “I want you to hunt her ship down and kill her.”

  There was a pause. Rhod knew the drill: she was weighing it up, determining a cost. Trying to make him squirm.

  At last Imelda said, “It may be dangerous.”

  “Price is irrelevant.”

  “Aha.” There was a touch of glee to Imelda’s voice. “Well then. You’ll have to send the details. Picture of the ship; presumably you have one. Its last known whereabouts.” She snickered.

  “I’ll forward data shortly.”

  “Good.” She drew out the word again, lengthening two ‘O’s to five. “And you want me to kill her.”

  “That’s right,” Rhod answered.

  “The proof?”

  “Her head.”

  “Mm. And the deckhand?”

  Rhod pressed his lips together. “Irrelevant. I want Celeste’s head on a stick. The rest—ship, crew, the deckhand she stole—torch it.”

  The Pantheon

  (Chapter Four)

  1

  Francis had had next to no sleep, drifting off only in the early hours when his body finally gave out on his mind. The dreams he had were brief and fevered, and now swam away as low knocking awoke him.

  The bed was a bedraggled mess. He had slept in his clothes, and they too were askew.

  God, he hated this place already.

  That same knocking came again, followed by a voice: “Mr Paige?” It was the man that had brought him here in the first place, the man that accompanied the captain—Ruby, her name was.

  “Mr Paige, it’s Trove.”

  Francis was tempted to roll over and simply go back to sleep, to shut the man out. After all, Trove would give up sometime, wouldn’t he? Report back to Ruby that his attempts had been unsuccessful.

  But again he knocked, and Francis knew he couldn’t ignore him. Pushing out of bed, he traipsed across the small floor and pulled the door open, glaring at Trove through tired eyes.

  “Ah, good morning. I wasn’t sure if you were awake.”

  “You woke me.” Francis looked at Trove sourly. “What do you want?”

  “Miss Celeste has requested I take you on a tour of the ship.”

  Francis looked up and down the empty corridor. “Too important to do it herself?” he grumbled.

  “Miss Celeste is rather tied up at the moment. Duty calls a captain.” Trove stepped aside. “Should we begin?”

  Francis gave a last look back at the room. But there was nothing for him here: no change of clothes, no activities he might busy himself with, and no excuses.

  “I guess so,” he said, resigned, and stepped from the room with an inward sigh.

  2

  “This ship is called the Pantheon,” said Trove. “It’s split into three decks, not including topside. The one we’re on now is our residential deck; mostly it’s comprised of crew quarters, much like your own, a communal area and a library. I imagine most of your time will be spent here, while you, err, adjust.”

  Adjust. He was stuck, Francis thought for the hundredth time. Kidnapped, then kidnapped again, and now trapped on this floating ship for—how long? The rest of his life? Until the reckless woman that captained this thing got them killed by pissing off someone even bigger than she was?

  “And here is the ladder topside. Would you like to go up?”

  Francis shook his head. “No.” Even thinking about the fact they were floating miles above ground made his stomach lurch. “Thanks.”

  The residential deck was much the same throughout. Wooden, with long crimson carpets. Paintings were hung here and there. Each door had a small brass plaque, a name and number stencilled on—or, in the case of one door Francis eyed as they passed, a pair of names.

  The library wasn’t much larger than Francis’s room; maybe bigger by half, it wasn’t much of a library: only two bookcases stood in here, and their shelves weren’t quite full. Two plush chairs were parked around a battered coffee table, while a great wooden globe perched in the corner.

  The communal area was somewhat larger, but still rather vacuous. There were some chairs, and as Francis wandered through the seating without interest, he noticed they were all bolted down.

  “The next deck down is more like the Pantheon’s heart,” Trove said as they took the stairs between levels. “Our control centre is here, along with the medical bay, the canteen and kitchens, and a number of smaller operations rooms. It’s here that we have navigation and cannon control.”

  “Cannons,” Francis repeated in a hollow voice.

  “We have one long cannon facing fore and aft; it runs the full length of the ship,” Trove explained. “There are also several smaller cannons to each side. Rest assured, if the ship is attacked, we’re well-defended.”

  Attacked. Well, that didn’t make Francis feel much better.

  Francis stopped, and Trove halted beside him. He turned and waited.

  Francis placed a hand against the wall of the corridor.

  “This place is made of wood,” he said at last.

  “Sort of,” Trove said. “The exterior and interior are, but it’s all bonded to a steel hull several inches thick. If we take a blast, the damage is mostly aesthetic.”

  Francis gaped. “Mostly.”

  “I shan’t lie; there have been a few close calls in the past. But Miss Celeste knows what she’s doing.”

  Yes, Francis thought. Of course she did. She’d only had the two of them almost killed yesterday. Getting shot at—getting shot herself, even—was clearly the mark of someone who was in control.

  “Besides, holes in the hull can be bonded closed again,” Trove said, continuing up the corridor. “It’s nothing we’re not used to.”

  “How does this thing stay up?” asked Francis. “It’s made of steel. It’s got to weigh …” His mind boggled as he tried to pick a number, before finally finishing weakly, “Tonnes.”

  “Aha. Goo
d question. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

  3

  The lowest deck was nowhere near as fancy as the others: the walls and floor were solid steel. For the most part it was a storage level, split into several sections: a pantry for the kitchen, a sizeable munitions room, and a general storage bay full of maintenance equipment. The only real room was located toward the rear, and took up a full half of the level’s floor space.

  “This,” Trove said as he knocked at the door, “is what keeps us up.”

  The door opened to reveal a rather annoyed-looking man who stood midway in height between Francis and Trove. He was middle-aged, his brown hair awry, creases lining his clothes. Several days’ growth of facial hair adorned his thin cheeks.

  He cast Francis barely more than a glance before fixing upon Trove. “Yes?”

  “This is Francis Paige,” said Trove. “We, err, acquired him yesterday during our brief stay at the Eden.”

  The brown-haired man looked at Francis again, for longer this time, before returning to Trove. “Okay. And?”

  “I’m giving him a tour of the ship, and thought he might like to see the Volum.”

  “I’d rather not—”

  “Come on, Benjamin. It’s at Miss Celeste’s request.”

  For an instant Benjamin looked like he might fight, but he relented and stepped inside. Trove crossed the threshold into the room, and Francis hesitantly followed. As he passed, Benjamin instructed, “Don’t touch anything.”

  The room they found themselves in was … well, Francis didn’t know how to describe it. It felt more like a cavern. Tabletops and shelving were set up madcap about its perimeter, stacked full of ledgers, and on the nearest table there were at least five books, all open and filled with blue scrawl. Two fat sacks of dark pellets were shoved in a space; one had tipped over and spilled its contents across the floor.

  But the strangest thing had to be what was in the centre: a vast, globular thing with leathery skin. It seemed to breathe in and out slowly, and emitted a blue glow around the room that pulsed in perfect cadence with its breaths. There was a small face that looked desperately out of proportion, but even that was simple: a pair of eyes, closed in clear contentment, and a lipless mouth that hung open.

  From the top of the creature sprouted dozens of wires that crisscrossed the ceiling before disappearing into holes toward the upper decks.

  “It’s sleeping, so don’t disturb it,” Benjamin warned.

  “Yes, yes,” Trove said. Turning to Francis, he said, “This is the Volum. It keeps the ship aloft.”

  Francis stared. This deck was twice as tall as the others, and now he saw why: to house this thing.

  “What is it?”

  “Its sole purpose is to eat; those high-energy pellets over there, specifically. As a by-product of its eating, it generates lift, as well as a sizeable … ‘pocket’, shall we say, of calm.”

  Francis frowned.

  “It negates wind,” Trove clarified. “Wind speeds up here would be catastrophic; this thing quells them around the ship quite nicely.” He paused. “Well, most of the time.”

  Francis lifted an eyebrow. “What are those wires?” he asked, pointing.

  “They link up to the fins on top of the ship, as well as the control centre and our batteries. In nature a Volum’s lift is omni-directional; there’s very little control over it. But our ship’s fins take a portion of that lift and point it in a single direction, allowing us full navigational control. It’s rather useful, I’d say.”

  Mouth agape, Francis listened. This was incredible; like nothing he’d ever seen. Slowly, eyes scouring the creature, he walked its circumference. Benjamin made a noise, but Trove waved him down and he stifled.

  “It glows,” Francis said simply.

  “Blue means it’s healthy,” said Trove. “According to Benjamin. Speaking of which, I ought to formally introduce you,” he continued as Francis returned to his starting point. “Ben, this is Francis Paige; he’s joining us here on the Pantheon. Francis, meet Benjamin Thoroughgood. He’s our Volum caretaker, and he does a rather fine job of it. Though he ought to leave the room a little more often,” he added, looking sideways at the man.

  “I’m studying,” Benjamin answered.

  “You didn’t want to stretch your legs at the Eden?”

  “Studying takes no pause.”

  “And when was the last time you ate? I haven’t seen you in the canteen in days.”

  “Samuel has been bringing my meals down for me.” Now Benjamin was starting to sound irate. “Are you finished? I’ve work to do.”

  “Yes, yes,” Trove said. He looked back at Francis. “Let’s be on our way.”

  They exited the room with a goodbye that sounded rather cursory from Benjamin. Then the door was closed and they were making their way back up the corridor.

  “He’s a strange one,” Trove said. “Spends all his time with that thing. His interest is rather perverse, if you ask me.”

  “Do all ships have one of those things?”

  “As far as I’m aware. Some have several, and the ports, like the one we picked you up from, have dozens. Likely hundreds, in the case of the Eden.”

  Another nod, but Francis said no more. His interest had been piqued, but now it fell away, leaving him with another reminder of how he had come to be here, and how he had been robbed of what could have been his only ride home.

  4

  Francis was allowed to skip lunch. He knew he was hungry; it had been well over twenty-four hours since he last ate. But his stomach felt like it had left him entirely, and he wanted to be alone. Instead he made his way to the library, where he first sat in silence, then stared at the bookcases.

  His mother, father … He wondered what they were thinking now. How they felt, to wake up in the morning and find him still not home. How they would feel as the days stretched into weeks, and their son didn’t return. Vanished, without a trace.

  “Hi.”

  Francis jerked. A tall, thin woman stood in the entryway, black hair tied back. He had seen her before; the one who’d stopped in the Eden’s parking bay to ask Ruby for instructions. Francis groped for her name, but couldn’t find it.

  “You’re Francis, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Natasha.” She came in, just one step, and leaned against the wall with her arms folded. She smiled slightly.

  Francis turned away. His eyes roved over the spines of the books on the shelves in front of him. Most were old, bound in leather. The lettering on some had been worn off.

  “I don’t presume to know what you’re feeling,” said Natasha, “but it’s okay. To be scared. Angry. You have every right.”

  “Good,” Francis muttered. “I should hope so.”

  “But if you ever want to talk, I’ll listen.”

  Silence.

  “No pressure. Give it some thought, hm?”

  Francis nodded minutely.

  Natasha lingered a moment longer, then he heard her feet as she pivoted to leave.

  He turned. “What do you do here?” he asked.

  She paused, came back over the threshold, then sat carefully in one of the chairs.

  “I’m navigation leader.”

  “You fly the ship?”

  “Hah. Sort of. Actually, mostly I tell two people at computer consoles what buttons to push, as well as keeping tabs on Benjamin.” She grinned. “I hear you met him today.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “He was … interesting.”

  Natasha laughed. “Very tactful answer. That’s not how most put it. Between you and me,” she said in a lower voice, leaning forward, “there’s at least one person on this ship that thinks he’s rather inclined toward that thing, if you catch my drift.”

  Oh God.

  The woman must have caught the horror on Francis’s face, as she leaned back and laughed again. “Pay me no heed. No, Benjamin just likes to study it. For some re
ason the thing fascinates him. Haven’t a clue why.” She paused as if considering, then waved to the other seat. “You can sit down if you like.”

  Francis hesitated. He shook his head. “Thanks.”

  “Not a problem.” Natasha’s eyes swept the room, not at all disconcerted by the silence. “Find anything interesting to read?”

  “No. I was just thinking, I guess.”

  “Ah. Well, I shall leave you to it.” She stood. “It was nice talking to you, Francis.” At the door, she paused and looked back. “I’ll listen if you need it.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  Modicum

  (Chapter Five)

  1

  It was either the rumble of his stomach or the knock at the door that woke Francis the next morning, though he couldn’t be sure which. Probably the former, he thought as he climbed out of bed and trudged to the door, as there was a definite vacuum in his midsection. No wonder; he’d skipped dinner last night too, and even though sitting around in a funk was hardly a tiresome activity, it was now almost forty-eight hours since the meagre breakfast he’d been given during his brief stint at Equity.

  “Good morning,” Trove greeted. He was, once again, alone. “Making good use of the pyjamas, I see.”

  Francis had been given a few sets of clothes, these striped flannel pyjamas included. They didn’t fit particularly well, but it was better than spending the rest of his life in the same outfit.

  “Hi,” Francis said.

  “Breakfast is being served in the canteen. Miss Celeste thought it best I collect you, given you skipped your meals yesterday.”

  A sour taste crept into Francis’s mouth. He thought of declining the invitation, but as if on cue his stomach rumbled loudly, and he thought better of it. Depressed and stranded, yes, but that didn’t mean he had to go hungry too.

  “I need to change,” Francis mumbled, casting a look back at his wardrobe. “Will you wait?”

  “I shall be just up the corridor.”

  Pushing the door closed and then crossing to the wardrobe, Francis opened the right-hand door. No sense opening both: there weren’t enough sets of second-hand clothing to fill it out.