No one did.
He passed the storage room. The door was closed; good. He had deposited his belt and sword in there the moment he returned to the Pantheon, just tossing them down into a corner before practically fleeing to the confines of his room. Dully, he wondered if anyone had found it yet, stowed it once more into the locker it had come from.
Then he was past it, and up ahead loomed the ladder topside.
He stood at it and paused.
“Come on,” he muttered.
He extended one hand, placed it on a rung; did the same with the other, reaching one rung higher. One foot—
He froze. Because once he was out, it meant standing at the edge of the ship, looking out into the abyss.
“Get a grip,” he told himself. “Just do it.”
Five seconds went by; six, seven …
“Come on!”
He shifted, and the letter in his pocket brushed against his leg.
That was enough to wheel him into motion. With a momentary glance backward, he brought himself onto the ladder and climbed; two rungs, three, four …
The topside hatch was closed, and Francis stopped to look. A wheel stood in its centre, so with one hand he gripped it tight and tugged. Some part of him was convinced it wouldn’t move—“He looks like he weighs all of one-fifty soaking wet”—but mercifully it budged instantly. He rotated until it would spin no more, and then pushed it open.
The night air was cool, and still—or at least it was still here, inside the Volum’s sphere of influence. What it was like further out, Francis didn’t know.
Reaching skyward were the Pantheon’s three fins, each pulsing gently with a subtle red glow from whatever covered them in intricate patterns. Beyond, the sky was alive with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of stars. A great streak that had the vaguest hint of plum colour was painted to Francis’s right.
“Admire it later,” he whispered. “Come on.”
Taking care again that his steps were soft, he headed left across the deck. The first half-dozen metres were easy, but as the railing loomed closer his footsteps turned to a lurch. Three metres from the Pantheon’s edge, he stopped entirely.
“Be a man! It’s easy. Just take one step, then another.”
He breathed deeply. In, out. In, out. In—one step. Out—another.
“That’s it. Keep going.”
In—left foot. Out—right. In—he froze.
“Almost there. Come on!”
For a full thirty seconds he stood, gasping in the air. He counted, said he’d go on three, then five, then ten, then thirty, and still he didn’t move.
“Go!”
He jerked forward at his own instruction, crossed the last few steps, and grabbed the railing as hard as he could.
He breathed heavily. Continued to stare straight ahead.
He was here. Safe. No wind, nothing to push him overboard. He was safe.
Still, he didn’t fancy hanging around. He dug into his pocket, fumbled past his room key, and withdrew the folded letter. Taking it out, he gave it one final look.
“Godspeed,” he whispered.
Placing a kiss upon it, he extended his hand over the side and let it go.
He was about to turn on his heel when someone grabbed him. A gasp burst from his lips, and he teetered backward, away from the edge.
“Easy, cowboy,” muttered a man. It was a voice Francis didn’t recognise; certainly no one from this ship. “Who are you?”
“F-Francis Paige,” he answered automatically.
“Ah. The stolen property.”
“Who—”
“Don’t ask questions.” The man wheeled back, pulling Francis with him. Francis’s legs obeyed without hesitation. “You know the layout of this ship?”
“Yes,” Francis breathed.
“Good, good.” There was a touch of a smile to the voice now. “Well then, Francis Paige, you’re going to lead me to Ruby Celeste.”
4
Francis was half-walked, half-dragged across the deck until they arrived at the open porthole.
“Now, Francis, I’m going to let you go. You’re going to climb down that ladder, then turn up the corridor and wait. Understand?”
Francis nodded quickly.
“You will do exactly as instructed and no more. Don’t think to raise an alarm; don’t think to make a sound; don’t think to do anything except what I just said. If you do …” He paused, and a half-second later Francis felt cold metal press against the side of his forehead. He jerked, gasped, but his assailant’s grip was too tight to move.
“That’s it.” Smiling again, low and dangerous and terrifying. “Now, Francis Paige, go down the ladder.”
The arm holding him vanished, and the barrel of the gun pulled away at the same moment as he was nudged forward. Francis almost lost his footing, almost gasped, cried out—but he stifled. No sound.
Resisting the urge to turn around, he squatted beside the porthole, swung his legs onto a rung, and clambered down.
What if there was someone up the corridor? What if someone happened to be passing? Could he say something? Maybe Natasha, or Trove—
But the corridor was empty, he saw as he reached the bottom, and Francis was alone. Alone with an armed man ready to kill him at a moment’s notice.
A soft whump sounded behind Francis, and a second later that arm had snaked back around him. No warning sound of feet upon rungs; one drop, plain and simple, and almost noiseless.
“You know where we’re going?”
Francis nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Take us there. And don’t try anything.”
To emphasise the last, hard metal pressed against Francis’s temple again.
“Walk.”
He obeyed.
The journey to Ruby’s quarters was short; just a case of following the corridor’s curve. As they went, Francis wondered—would someone step out? Up ahead? Behind them? What then? And if not, what would this man do to Ruby? To Natasha, to Trove?
What would happen to Francis?
This man had referred to him as ‘stolen property’. That meant he must have come from Rhod Stein, from the Eden. Did that mean Rhod had survived? And did that mean Francis had a way home after all?
“Are you going—” he began, but metal against his temple cut the words off.
“Quiet, cowboy.”
On the right: one door, looming, now past, and then the door to Ruby’s quarters.
“This is it,” Francis breathed. He juddered to a halt, not entirely of his own accord. “Right here.”
“Ruby Celeste’s room.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Knock.”
Francis lifted a hand. It quivered.
He knocked.
Quiet.
The door yawned open.
A shock of red hair.
“Francis—”
Two things happened, fast.
One: Francis was pushed hard to the side.
Two: a gunshot.
He hit the floor. A fraction of a second later, someone else did a few feet behind him.
Eyes fastened tight, he lay there, gasping, waiting.
Somewhere, a door opened. More than one. Voices. Mikhail was somewhere amidst the fray, Francis could hear, thundering up the corridor. One of the technicians—Amelie, he thought. And—
“Francis?”
Hands flew to his wrist, his neck, feeling for a pulse.
His eyelids flitted open.
Natasha: “You’re okay.”
“Is Ruby—” he started.
“Fine.” She pulled him up to seated. Worry lines etched her forehead. Her eyes swept the hallway; Francis followed.
There, slumped against the wall, was a black-clad body. A gun lay a few feet from his hand. His head was hidden just out of view by someone’s legs; the spray of claret and gore against the wall behind it was not. Francis paled, turned away.
Ruby stood in the doorway. Shell-shocked, she was ashen. Mikhail stood
to one side, talking quickly. Ruby’s answers came in one- and two-word sentences.
“Who—” Francis began. He swallowed, but his throat was dry and papery. “Who shot him?”
Natasha pointed.
Stood behind Ruby was Trove. A clipboard lay discarded by his feet, pages ruffled. Instead he grasped a pistol, its barrel still smoking gently from above his bone-white knuckles.
5
Ruby stared. Mikhail was talking in her ear, and there were voices all around in the corridor. She needed to focus, but all she could do was gaze at the dead man against the opposite wall, a wreck where his head had once been.
This man would have killed her, if not for Trove.
She blinked, turned. He was locked into position, weapon still poised in his grip.
“You can put the gun down now, Trove,” she said, voice low.
His eyes moved to hers. As if waking, recognition dawned. He nodded, then stowed the pistol back within his coat. His movements were slow.
“Mikhail.” She turned back. The wheels of her brain were in motion again now. She had been caught off-guard, but it was time to take charge. “Assemble into teams. I want a full sweep of the ship.”
“Aye.”
“Amelie. Sound the alarm, then put the ship into lockdown. You, Sia and Stefan are all on comms; open doors only when necessary to allow our scouts access.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Natasha.” The navigation leader snapped to a salute. “Take nav control; full thrust. Pick a direction and follow it; I don’t care which. Just get us out of here.”
Natasha nodded; she pivoted on her heel and then was gone.
“Francis.”
He looked up, met Ruby’s eyes. For once that guarded look didn’t cross his face.
“I need to know what happened.”
She expected for a second that he might not tell her, but his answer came with no delay: “I was up on deck and he just—just grabbed me.”
Ruby frowned. “Up on deck?”
“Natasha gave me a diary. I thought I could write my parents a letter and drop it; maybe it might get to them.”
“Oh.” The word was softer, just slightly.
“He came up behind me.”
“Did you hear him?”
Francis shook his head. “No.”
“What then?”
“He asked who I was. I told him. Then he asked if I knew the layout of the ship, and told me to lead him to you.” His mouth worked for a moment, before he finally said, “That’s it.”
Ruby gave the dead man a demure glance, then exchanged a look with Trove. Finally, she said to Francis, “It’s late. The ship is in lockdown, so you won’t get into your room. Why don’t you go to the library? I’ll send Natasha to keep you company when she’s done.”
Francis nodded. He seemed to hesitate a fraction of a second, then turned and disappeared up the corridor. Ruby watched him go.
“You don’t think,” Trove began.
Ruby waved the thought off. “No, I don’t.”
But as she wheeled into action, preparing to scour the ship for unexpected occupants, she pondered Trove’s unasked question: had Francis had anything to do with the attack?
No, she didn’t think so.
Though ‘think’ did leave some wiggle room for doubt.
6
It was well into the early hours of the morning that Natasha finally wandered into the library. For most of this time, Francis had been alone; now and again someone had come by, chatted with him (at him) before departing, but no one had stuck around.
“How’re you holding up?” Natasha asked. She slumped down into the free chair and leaned her head back.
“Fine,” said Francis. “You?”
She pulled a tense smile. “Just super.” Massaging the corners of her eyes, she let out a long sigh, then sat up straighter. “Sorry,” she said. “The ship is somewhat chaotic right now.”
“I can imagine.” Not that Francis needed to. Sat across from her, he could see just how drawn she looked. Dark patches were starting to form beneath her eyes.
Speaking lower, Natasha said, “Are you sure you’re okay? What happened out there?”
Francis told her the same he’d told Ruby. Natasha listened; she didn’t ask questions, like Ruby had; merely sat and took the little information in. Only when he’d finished did she lean back in the seat, thoughtful, before finally saying, “And he didn’t say who he was? Where he was from?”
“Nope. Just told me what to do and how to do it.”
“I see.”
“He … he called me ‘stolen property’,” Francis said. “Could Rhod have sent him?” When Natasha didn’t say anything, he added, “You know … to take me back.”
“It’s possible,” Natasha said slowly.
“So … so I could get home after all.”
A pained expression crossed the nav leader’s face. Fixing eyes with Francis, she held his gaze.
“Francis, that man was here for Ruby. He was here to kill her—and if you’d tripped up, it sounds very much to me like he would have killed you too. Maybe Rhod Stein did send him—if he’s still alive, at any rate—but if that’s the case, is that someone you really want to go back with? Someone who put a gun to your head and was willing to pull the trigger?
“Ruby is a good person,” Natasha continued. “We are good people. I know you being stuck here isn’t ideal, but hoping to go back to the man that ordered your kidnap in the first place, then sent an assassin to board this ship in the dead of night—it’s not something you should wish for. If he took you back, do you really think he’d give you a ride home?”
Quiet.
“Ah; Miss Celeste said I’d find you here.”
Natasha and Francis turned to the doorway. Mikhail stood, one hand resting on the frame. Casual; almost as if he hadn’t been searching for more attackers these past few hours.
“Hello, Mikhail,” Natasha said. “How did the search go?”
“Came up empty. Anyhow, ship’s out of lockdown now. That means we can go back to our quarters. Thought I’d give you both the heads-up.”
Natasha nodded. “Thanks.” She suppressed a yawn, rose and stood, stretching her long body. “See you,” she said to Francis, and then departed.
“How you feeling?” Mikhail asked.
Francis glanced at him, shrugged. “I’m okay. Thanks.”
“You did well. Commendable, keeping your nerve. Lot of other folk would’ve screamed their heads off.”
“Yeah, well, I suppose you keep zipped and follow instructions when there’s a gun pointed at your head.”
Mikhail smirked. “Maybe so, but still.” He straightened. “Heading back to bed?”
“In a minute.” Francis lifted the book that had been laying in his lap and gave it a little wave. “Just going to finish this page.”
“All right. Take it easy.”
Francis pretended to read as Mikhail loped off. Once the corridor was empty, he let his eyes stop trawling the page. His focus drifted.
Natasha’s words replayed in his head. Had she been right? Was he so desperate for a ride home, any ride, that he thought Rhod Stein would take him back if he managed to return to the man’s clutches?
He was torn. On the one hand, Rhod was the only person around for hundreds of miles that had the capability to take him home.
But on the other, he had sent someone to the Pantheon—or at least it seemed that way—who was poised to kill Ruby. And then what? Would he have killed Francis too?
No matter how long Francis thought about it, no answers came.
Rhod Stein Receives a Call
(Chapter Seven)
1
Clean-up on The Pharmacologist’s Eden was an enormous undertaking—though it felt less like ‘clean-up’ and more like ‘reconstruct the entire damn thing with half the workforce and a bunch of know-all contractors, pissing through as much cash as possible’. Good thing Rhod had invested wisely, or this
would’ve ruined him.
He’d rallied to keep the SkyPort operating. Most of the repairs were needed at the back end, he reasoned; no sense in ceasing trade for the whole of the Eden when the front half was still functional. But he’d been strongly advised against it; yes, that part of the Eden looked fine, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t unstable, particularly with the rear wall of storefronts either missing or dangerously contorted.
There was also the matter of power. Cables were constantly being disconnected and reconnected as debris was cleared. One minute they might be powered, the next most of the Eden could go dark.
Most of the larger pieces of rubble were gone now, including the remains of what had once been Rhod’s office, but that meant no shortage of smaller pieces of wreckage. Rhod watched this clean-up op now, silent and brooding. Mostly contractors; too few faces Rhod recognised. Fleeing bastards.
God, how he hated those contractors. All he wanted was to run the port. Instead they’d been turning ships away for days. Fewer and fewer were arriving now; word was trickling elsewhere that Rhod Stein’s Eden wasn’t open to customers, but was open to a gentle breeze that flowed through the gaping wound in the SkyPort’s side.
A click sounded at his belt. The radio. He lifted it off and pressed the transmitter.
“Stein.”
“Call for you, sir.”
“On my way.”
Thumbing the radio off and clipping it back to his belt, he rose. He gave the contractors a final grimace, then lumbered in the direction of the nearest storefront and its phone.
2
The shop Rhod passed through was a fashion outlet. He breezed through aisles of clothing forged between clusters of circular racks, found the door to the staff office, and pushed through. Like Equity, it wasn’t as clean and chic back here; there was a rather dilapidated look to the furniture, and a brown stain marred the carpet. Coffee, probably.
He hefted down into a chair behind a desk. There were two phones; lifting the nearest from the cradle, he waited, keyed in his code, and then pressed the number ‘1’ for the waiting line.
“Took long enough,” said a scratchy, weathered voice, with just a touch of glee.
The Ruby Celeste Series - Box Set, books 1 - 3: Ghost Armada, Dire Kraken, and Church of Ife Page 7