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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  “Are you ready?” Ruby asked.

  Francis gritted his teeth. He kept his eyes clasped tight.

  “You just lift your leg up and over the railing,” Ruby said. “Can you do that?”

  He opened his eyes. For one moment they looked wild, before he slammed them shut and shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re in the air,” he gasped.

  “Well, yes. So what’s the worry?”

  “What if I fall?”

  “Ah. Don’t you worry about that,” Ruby said. “You’re with me!”

  “You almost got me shot.”

  Ruby waved it off. “‘Almost’ and ‘did’ are worlds apart. Now come on; we haven’t got all day. We’ll even do it together.”

  She stepped up to the rail, hand clamped tight on Francis’s arm. He moaned, but a little tug from Ruby was all it took for him to edge forward.

  “That’s it. Now, lift up your left leg—come on, lift it up—higher—and move it over the railing.”

  He did as instructed, eyes closed the whole time. Ruby watched as he grimaced, moved to place his foot—and floundered when it didn’t meet floor. He tumbled forward and let out a gasp; she tightened her grip on him, and his foot made contact with the Modicum’s deck.

  “There we go,” she said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “I—I thought I was falling.”

  Ruby suppressed a smile. “You’re safe. Now: the other one.”

  5

  “Easy,” Ruby muttered, edging around a hole in the floor.

  They were moving through the Modicum’s upper deck, having slipped down in roughly the same spot as Mikhail’s team. So far they had heard and encountered nothing.

  The Modicum was even worse on the inside. Enormous sections of decking and panelling were just gone, ripped up entirely. The steel hull was visible in some of these places, but in others it was missing, the edges of these wounds discoloured. At first Ruby had thought it corrosion, but this wasn’t rust. The closer she looked, the more she thought it matched her initial assessment: the hull had frayed like paper. Once she moved to touch it, but changed her mind and withdrew her hand.

  The rooms so far had been empty, and Ruby wasn’t surprised. But still, there was something wrong. Someone was on the ship, she knew; someone had fired upon the Pantheon. The question was, where?

  She brought her wrist to her mouth, tapped on the communicator, and opened a radio channel to Mikhail. “Report.”

  “Empty down here,” he said. “There are a lot of holes. But we’ve found a supply cupboard; could restock.”

  “Good. Keep me posted.” Ruby thumbed the channel off.

  This corridor was curved, and holes wended across the floor. In one place they had almost had to turn around where a maw had half-eaten it and a great chunk of the right-hand wall. Still, it had felt stable enough—a little bit of give, but the whole place had that—and so they’d crossed anyway.

  A door loomed ahead, on the right. Ruby mentally checked the ship’s layout, worked out just how far they’d come.

  Natasha had done the same, apparently, as from behind she muttered, “Control centre?”

  “One way to find out.”

  They reached the door. Ruby pulled Francis close to her. His breathing had evened out somewhat, but he was still edgy, and in the dim, flickering lights she could see he remained pale.

  “On my mark,” she whispered. “One, two: mark.”

  Evans thrust open the door, then stormed inside, pistol drawn. Natasha was in a moment later, and Ruby followed, pulling Francis.

  This was the control centre, or once had been. Terminals were busted, most of them, and that same mottled fraying had crawled over several of the workstations, exposing circuitry. An amber light pulsed unsteadily. And in one corner—

  “Get off my ship!”

  The man they faced was haggard. His complexion was sallow. The skin of his face looked taut, unhealthily so, and uneven facial hair sprouted in curled brown tufts. Even in the dull light, Ruby could tell his eyes had yellowed in the corners. The irises were blue, but faint, barely half a shade darker than the whites, so his pupils seemed frighteningly dark—and small.

  “Who are you?” Ruby demanded.

  He didn’t answer. His eyes darted madly from one to the other, and his mouth worked, but no sound came out.

  “I said, who are you?”

  — and then he lifted a gun.

  Hands flew to weapons, bodies pressed low. Someone let out a terrified gasp—Francis, of course—and Ruby stepped across his body, her sword poised.

  “S’empty,” the man said. “See!” He pointed it skyward and pulled the trigger, but only a hollow click came. “Empty!” Grinning, he dropped it. “S’all I’ve got.”

  Ruby didn’t relax. “Who are you?”

  “Captain. Of this ship.” The last word was long, drawn out. He pressed on the top of the workstation closest, lifted himself onto unsteady legs. “Who are you?”

  “That’s irrelevant,” said Ruby.

  The man’s eyes roved. His pupils were so tiny, even in the low light.

  “Why did you fire upon my ship?” Ruby demanded.

  He grinned again, a madman’s leer, and took a forward step. Ruby felt Francis press backward behind her.

  This captain’s whole body was bony, she saw now. How had he become so malnourished? And—

  “Where are your crew?” she asked.

  “Hah! Shot ‘em.” He leaned against the wall, sideways. A look came across his face, almost—reminiscent?

  Ruby opened her mouth to ask why, but he wasn’t finished.

  “Had to. They’d got it. All of ‘em.” A momentary pause. “Well, not all. Some of them mighta fallen.” He sighed, a strangely melancholic sound, before crossing his arms and then letting them drop unceremoniously to his sides. His eyes had fallen to the floor, but now they came up to Ruby again, and a light seemed to click on inside them. “You’re alive.”

  She was silent.

  “I thought,” the loon began, but let the sentence trail off. Finally he said, “Wrong.”

  “Is there anyone else aboard this ship?”

  “Hah! Me—the Volum. No one else. I told you; they’re all dead. Shot ‘em.”

  Quiet. Then Ruby said, “I see.”

  Without warning, she crossed to the deranged man.

  “You—” he began, but Ruby cut across.

  “You shall not fire upon my ship again.”

  She thrust her sword forward in one easy motion. There was a horrible shick sound as it went right through the man’s chest, halfway to the hilt. Francis gasped, pedalled backward into a wall as his vision tunnelled—and then Ruby pulled it free with that same horrifying sound.

  The man held still for a moment, expressionless—and then crumpled to the floor.

  6

  The Modicum turned out to be the answer to all of Ruby’s needs: the pantry was almost full, which meant they no longer needed to check into The Oft-Trodden Footpath. Beyond that, there were further items Ruby’s crew could salvage: medical supplies, filters for the condensers, maintenance equipment, pellets for the Volum. Over the course of the next few hours, these things were sifted through by the Pantheon’s crew, and anything deemed useful was taken back onto their ship.

  The captain’s words proved true: there was not a soul on board the Modicum. No bodies remained, either; if the crazed captain had shot every person on his ship then he had disposed of the corpses.

  Ruby stood now in what had once been the captain’s quarters. The room was somewhat smaller than her own, and just as holey as the rest of the ship. It was unruly, too; the few possessions in here were littered all over the place, and the desk was almost completely covered in ink. The empty jar sat in a fat black stain on the floor, dried long ago.

  There was very little in here of value. A single jar remained unbroken on a shelf, the glass murky. A label was stuck to it but the writing had
faded to illegibility. Ruby considered taking it; maybe someone could identify its contents. But she changed her mind and moved on.

  The bed was messy, stained. She flicked the cover off by the tiniest edge of material pinched in her thumb and forefinger, careful not to touch it. The sheet beneath was worse. She did the same with the pillow, tossing it aside, and found—

  A book. A diary, by the looks. Carefully, she stooped and picked it up, flicking through its pages.

  Nothing interesting. Most entries were cursory, filled out for no reason other than for something to do at the end of a day.

  But—

  She paused, flicked backward a page. The writing terminated abruptly. It had turned into a scrawl—the scrawl of a madman?

  The last full entry was brief; it recanted his shooting someone named Malloy, then tossing the body overboard. The last sentence had been started but not finished: ‘Of all the places, in all the’

  Four blank lines followed. Then came two words, and beneath, two numbers: the final notes this man had penned.

  ‘Ghost Armada’. And below—co-ordinates?

  Ruby frowned. She fell down into the seat by the desk and stared at the page. Ghost Armada. That sounded … familiar. A legend? Probably. Almost definitely, given the word ‘ghost’.

  Had the Modicum been searching for it? Had that been what drove the captain mad?

  She bit her lip and puzzled. “The Ghost Armada,” she muttered to the empty room. “Hm.”

  Letter

  (Chapter Six)

  1

  Natasha had just finished eating as Trove stepped into the canteen—alone. She frowned. Rising from her table, she weaved through the seats with her tray and empty plate, arriving beside the man.

  “You’re by yourself,” she said, stowing the tray in the nearby rack.

  “Mr Paige isn’t hungry,” Trove answered. “I expect you’ll find him in the library, if you’re looking.”

  “Ah. Well. Thank you, Trove.” Natasha gave a nod, which Trove returned, and then departed.

  She stopped by her quarters first, and then headed for the library. True to Trove’s word, there was Francis: sat on one of the plush seats, staring through the floor. There was a book on his lap, but the pages had fanned upward, forgotten.

  “Evening,” Natasha said.

  Francis looked up. “Hi.”

  She sat down opposite. “How are you feeling?”

  He shrugged. “Fine.”

  “You didn’t seem fine.”

  For a moment he was silent, then said: “When? When your captain strapped a sword to my side? When she forced me onto that other ship with her?” He faltered, and his mouth worked wordlessly for a second. “When she—she stabbed that man?”

  Natasha waited for him to go on. When it was clear he wouldn’t, she said calmly, “All of those times. And before, and since.”

  “Hah. Well, what a surprise.” He smirked to himself, an unfunny sound, and then glanced up at Natasha. Their eyes met for a second before he dropped them. “I’m not cut out for this.”

  “No one ever said you were.”

  “She seems to think so.” He jabbed toward the doorway on ‘she’. “She thinks I’d love to be thrown right in, to—to be given a sword and—and—”

  “Why did you go along with it?”

  “What?”

  “The sword; coming topside; climbing onto the Modicum with us,” said Natasha. “Why do it?”

  “Because I had no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice. Ruby doesn’t force anyone.”

  “Hah.”

  Natasha was quiet for a moment. Then she reclined in the chair and looked down at the book in Francis’s lap. “What’re you reading?”

  He folded it over and flashed Natasha the cover; a book of legends she had glanced through once or twice before. “Wasn’t really reading it,” he said. “You can have it if you want.”

  “No, thanks. Actually, I have something for you.”

  Francis looked at her again, at what she carried. It was a book, cover brown leather, unmarred.

  “I’ve already got a book,” he said.

  “Do you have a diary?”

  “What?”

  Natasha flipped it open. The pages were blank. “It’s a diary. You know what they say; writing can be therapeutic. Gives you a chance to get your feelings out.”

  Francis considered. Finally, he looked away, back through the floor. “What’s the point.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Just think about it.” Natasha placed it down on the table between them, pushed it an inch or so across, and rose. “It might help. And if not, you’re only out some time.”

  He didn’t reply, so she headed for the door.

  “She killed him,” Francis whispered.

  Natasha paused. Turned. Met his eyes.

  “She killed that man. And all those people at the Eden. And she’s your leader?”

  “Ruby is a good person.”

  “Is she?” Francis asked. “Do good people kill?”

  Natasha nodded. “Up here, they do,” she said quietly.

  Silence … and then she turned and was gone.

  2

  The clock said it was well past nine when Francis finally extracted himself from the library. That meant most of the crew would have retired to their quarters. Good; he didn’t much fancy making small talk.

  For a second he thought about just leaving the diary on the table, where it had sat untouched for hours. But he hesitated just an instant, and that instant was enough to convince him to pick it up. Natasha was right; it could be therapeutic. Or pointless. Francis wasn’t sure which.

  His door shut and locked, he sat down on his bed, heaved a sigh, and considered the book. It was heavy, though not very thick. And new: a waxy sheen covered the leather. The pages were thicker than regular paper, and faintly yellow.

  Francis pondered. What would he write? It had been three days since being kidnapped. Three days stranded up here, with no way down.

  Well. No way down that hadn’t been blown up by his red-haired ‘saviour’.

  What would his parents have thought? Had they noticed during the night? He’d tried to make some commotion as his captors snatched him out of bed, but a hand was clamped over his mouth barely before he could fully awake—and those men, heavyset though they were, had been as stealthy as cats.

  No, his parents wouldn’t have known until he was late for breakfast. Maybe even later; they might’ve thought he was having a lay-in. It might not have been until early afternoon that his father knocked on his door, asking if he was up, if everything was all right.

  And when they found the room empty—what then? Would they have known something had happened? Maybe they would simply think Francis had gone out early, would be back late.

  Maybe they wouldn’t have started to worry until the next day.

  And now …

  Francis closed his eyes and tried to wish the thought away. He couldn’t bear the image of their stricken faces as they wondered what had happened, set out searching for him.

  How long would they look?

  And when they didn’t find him—when would they give up?

  Maybe they’d think he’d run away from home.

  That thought was like a punch to the stomach.

  “Stop it,” Francis muttered. “Just … stop it.”

  He balled up his fists, as if he could squeeze and strangle everything running through his head. Then he dropped them to his lap.

  They met leather.

  The diary.

  What a stupid thing to give him. What was the point in getting his thoughts down? This book, it wasn’t a person—not a person that mattered. Not someone he could speak to; he would simply be communicating with himself—

  He paused. Stared.

  He could … write a letter. Could write something to his parents, print their address on it, and drop it over the side of the ship. He had no idea where it would land, but someone wou
ld surely find it. That someone would pass it on.

  He could tell them that he was okay.

  They could never write back, but …

  Climbing to his feet, Francis crossed the small space to the desk and pulled open the single drawer. Only two things were inside, but they were exactly what he needed: a bottle of ink, and a pen. Pulling them out and furiously uncapping the bottle, he opened the book to the first page, dipped the end of the pen, and began to write as fast as he could.

  Mum, Dad;

  This is Francis. I don’t know if this will reach you, but I’ll pray with all that I have it will.

  I was kidnapped. The man who took me was someone called Rhod Stein, but I think he may be dead now. I was stolen to be sold as a worker, and the person that took me, a woman called Ruby Celeste, she blew everything up.

  I’m not down there anymore. Now I’m stuck on some kind of flying ship. Oh God, I’m so scared—yesterday we were attacked and the captain forced a sword onto me. She killed people! Right in front of me!

  I don’t know how to get home. I don’t know if I can get home. But if I can find a way, I will. I promise.

  I didn’t run away.

  I love you. I miss you.

  Francis Paige

  A dim part of him was aware that his face was hot and wet, and the ink had bled in one spot where a tear had fallen.

  He tore out the page carefully, read it one final time, then folded it into the smallest square he could. On the outside he wrote the address, then unfolded it and printed it along the bottom in block capitals before refolding.

  This had to work. It just had to. He had to let them know that he was okay.

  There was just the simple matter of getting it to them.

  3

  Francis unlocked his door, slow and careful. Suddenly he felt almost guilty, as if he were sneaking about.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he chided himself. But still, the feeling remained.

  The corridor was empty as he stepped out. Nonetheless, he slunk, keeping his footfalls as light as possible lest anyone hear and throw a door open.