Rhod grunted, “Imelda.”
“Repairs nicely underway?”
“Quit the small-talk and get to it. What do you want? Did you find Celeste yet?”
Imelda smirked, a nasal sound even over the poor connection. “We’re rather brash today, Rhod.”
“Get to the point.”
“There’s been a little setback.” The gleeful note to Imelda’s voice was gone. Gripping the phone tighter, Rhod leaned forward. “One of my men dropped onto the ship last night, but never reported back. We found his Pod empty, no sign of him.”
“Celeste got him,” Rhod muttered.
“Presumably.”
“Your men are meant to be the best! What’s happened since I last took out your services?”
“Don’t give yourself a coronary, big man,” said Imelda. “She got lucky, nothing else.”
“Or your man isn’t as good as you think—”
“Celeste got lucky,” Imelda hissed. There was a brief pause, and when her voice returned she was calmer, more collected. “You’ll have her head on a stick, and soon. The Pod’s cams caught her ship disappearing; I have her vector.”
“Maybe you ought to dispatch more next time. Just in case she gets lucky again.”
“Oh, I will. I don’t take kindly to the loss of any of my people. I assure you, Rhod, next time Celeste will have a whole group to contend with. We’ll see if she gets lucky then.”
The Pantheon, Redirected
(Chapter Eight)
1
The morning came far too early, Natasha thought as she trudged through the Pantheon to the canteen, even for someone accustomed to early mornings, late nights.
The cafeteria was empty. The ship’s crew awoke at the same time, more or less; some of the techies worked night shifts, and wouldn’t rise until the afternoon, but otherwise the majority of the workforce was in the process of getting up now. The excitement of the previous night must have had everyone working at less than full speed.
“Morning,” Natasha said to Samuel. He nodded, then waved for her to extend her tray.
No porridge this morning: instead Natasha was treated to a single slice of poorly buttered toast (one side had received almost all of the spread, whereas the other was bone dry), a ladleful of beans, a scoop of diced mushrooms, and a fried egg, which split open and spilled runny yolk across the plate as Samuel deposited it.
Thank goodness for the Modicum, Natasha thought, perching down on a corner table. Yesterday hadn’t been all bad.
She chewed slowly, thinking on the previous night. How was Francis doing? Perhaps she’d check in with him later, when she got a chance. Or maybe he’d arrive shortly, accompanied by Trove.
A trickle of people came over the next five minutes; Vala and Stefan together, Stefan in need of a shave; then Herschel, who was followed closely by Mikhail; he grinned and said, “Sleep all right?” to Natasha as he passed, earning him the middle finger of Natasha’s right hand.
As Natasha mopped up the last of the sauce from her beans with the dry end of her toast, Trove stepped in. She looked up for Francis, but Trove had come alone—and instead of heading to the serving station, he wove through the tables, moving directly for her.
“Howdy,” Natasha said. “Pull up a pew.”
Trove sat down. “Miss Brady.”
“Feeling okay? You know, after last night.”
“A little shaken, but none the worse for wear.”
“Excellent.”
“I have a request,” Trove said. He flipped his clipboard onto the table and scrutinised the top page for a second. “Miss Celeste would like to re-route the ship.”
“Oh?” Natasha popped the last corner of toast into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “I thought we were heading for the nearest SkyPort.”
“We were,” said Trove. “But the Modicum’s stores plugged most of our holes, so the trip isn’t necessary. And Miss Celeste wishes to go … somewhere else.”
An eyebrow rose on Natasha’s face. “You look troubled, Trove. What’s up?”
He glanced around for listeners. But the cafeteria was now a hubbub, so no one was in danger of overhearing.
“I believe it to be something of a flight of fancy,” he confided in a low voice. “During our encounter with the Modicum yesterday, Miss Celeste discovered a diary. In the back was a set of co-ordinates, and the words …” He glanced down at the clipboard as if checking what he had noted was correct, before finishing, “‘Ghost Armada’.”
“I see,” Natasha said after a long pause.
“Nothing more than the deranged writings of a madman; at least, that’s what I think.”
“Did you tell her so?”
“Of course.”
“And she didn’t listen.”
Trove fixed Natasha with a look. “Have you met our captain?”
Natasha chewed her lip. She glanced down at the clipboard. Sure enough, there on the topmost sheet was exactly what Trove had said: the words ‘Ghost Armada’, printed in his tidy scrawl, and a set of co-ordinates. A question mark had been drawn and bracketed to one side of the paper.
“So she wants us to find it?”
Trove nodded. “I tried to talk her out of it, but … Given the Modicum’s wealth of stores, we really have no reason now to check into The Oft-Trodden Footpath. We’ve got enough to last us weeks.”
“What about repairs? We’re minus four of our cameras.”
“I thought that, but no; they snatched several of the Modicum’s before we left her yesterday. They’ll be wired up today.”
“First aid supplies? Maintenance?”
“No and no. As I said, the Modicum plugged our gaps; it even brought us up to surplus in some places. We’ve got no reason whatsoever to check into port for at least three weeks. Food is—was—our main concern, and the Modicum’s cache was almost full of that.”
Natasha nodded. “Well, at least you tried. So am I re-routing the ship today?”
“As soon as possible.” Trove unclipped the sheaf of paper and handed it over. Natasha glanced over it, memorising its brief contents, and then folded it and slipped it into a pocket.
“I’ll get to it in a moment, then.” Drumming her hands, she glanced around the room. It really had filled out now. “No Francis?”
“I’ll collect him in a moment; Miss Celeste thought this more pertinent.”
“Fair enough. Any idea where our attacker came from?”
Trove shook his head. “The working cameras didn’t catch anything. Miss Celeste suspects it was a specialised vehicle; something made for creeping. Whatever the case, I doubt we’ll ever know now.”
“I see. What happened to the body?”
“Darrel’s running an autopsy to see if maybe we can find anything; identichips, a tracking device. Certainly nothing worthwhile was in his clothes; all he carried was his jumpsuit, gun and a knife.”
They sat quietly for a few moments. Chatter filled the room. Surprisingly, despite last night’s events, it was mostly idle. Only a few snippets of conversation met Natasha’s ears about the attempted assassination; mostly people just talked about what their day’s plans involved. Then again, that wasn’t too much of a surprise; though word had almost surely travelled through the entire crew by now, Ruby usually called a meeting after big events—and changes of plan, like re-routing the ship—to fill everyone in at once. The crew would be waiting for that before the discussions really got started.
“Well,” said Trove. “I ought to rouse Francis.”
“Indeed. And I’ve got a ship to redirect.”
“Thanks, Miss Brady.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Trove got to his feet and wended back through the room. Natasha watched him go, then picked up her tray and headed for the doorway herself.
2
The command centre was empty when Natasha arrived. She was glad. Chitchat didn’t feel to be her strong suit today.
She fell down into the seat at her usual con
sole, cycled through to the navigation controls, inputted her passcodes and then set to work.
Last night she’d forked the ship almost ninety degrees off their original course; an hour later, she’d forked again, then followed a swaying, uneven curve for another two and a half hours. Since then the Pantheon had been travelling more or less in a straight line, not quite in the direction of The Oft-Trodden Footpath, but not too far off-course that they couldn’t pick it back up.
She entered the co-ordinates on the slip Trove had given her, checked them twice, then told the computer to do its thing. A few moments later it drew up a refined flight path, pointing starboard. Wherever they were headed was eleven days’ travel away, maybe faster if she spoke to Benjamin and got him to put the Volum through its paces. Which essentially meant overfeeding it to the nth degree, and praying a power spike didn’t knock the Pantheon’s systems offline. It was already bad enough with the one battery on the fritz.
Natasha gave the final okay to the computer, then waited. After five seconds, she felt it, just slightly; the minute tug that meant the Pantheon was changing direction.
“Morning.”
Natasha glanced to the doorway. Ruby walked in. For the little sleep she’d had—probably none at all, Natasha thought—she looked remarkably perky.
“Morning, Captain.” Natasha snapped a salute, but Ruby waved her off as she dropped down into a nearby chair.
“Trove gave you my instructions?”
“That he did; we’re moving on our new course already.”
“Excellent!” Ruby grinned. “He told you what we’re searching for?”
“He did.”
Ruby’s grin extended, and she straightened in her seat, looking positively enthralled. “I think they were searching for it—the people on the Modicum. I found it in the captain’s diary. Seems he went a little bit mad before ever finding it.”
“And you don’t think that the search is what drove him mad?” Natasha ventured. “It is, after all, a ghost armada.”
Ruby shrugged. “Perhaps; I don’t suppose there’s any way we’ll know. Regardless, we have one set of co-ordinates. We’ll scope it out, and if it’s a wild goose chase, well, it’s a wild goose chase. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
That was true. Natasha doubted they would find anything; this was a fable, or the ravings of a homicidal lunatic. Still, if it pleased Ruby, then she would go along with the ride. Especially now their pantry was full again.
Very suddenly, Ruby said, “You speak to Francis a lot.”
“I do.”
“How does he seem to you?”
Natasha’s mouth quirked. “Perfectly fine. He’s angry, and scared, but given the circumstances …” She trailed off. “He’s coped remarkably well.”
“Hm.” Ruby’s lips tightened. She eyed the nearest screen—a schematic of the ship and a scrolling reel of status reports—but didn’t seem to take it in.
“Something on your mind?”
“It’s just … strange.” Ruby’s words came slowly. “He doesn’t appear to like me very much—and then a man appears from nowhere, trying—I assume, given the gun—to kill me. Escorted by Francis.”
“A man who pointed that same gun at Francis’s head,” Natasha reminded her. When Ruby didn’t reply, she continued, “I’m confident of his character.”
“He hasn’t been aboard long.”
Natasha repeated, “I’m confident of his character.”
There was a moment of quiet, but that seemed to seal it. Ruby nodded, then rose from her seat. “Okay. I’ll see you later, Natasha.” She crossed to the door. Just before she stepped over the threshold, she paused and looked back. “Just … keep an eye on him, will you?”
Natasha nodded. “That I will.”
Ruby smiled, and then was gone.
3
Just as the morning had come too fast for Natasha, it had also come too fast for Francis. He wasn’t even sure if he’d slept; the entire night he’d tossed and turned, alternately going over everything Natasha had said, and fearing that every tiny sound from the ship was someone else dropping in unexpected.
Now he stared blearily at the ceiling. Sometime soon, Trove would knock, asking if he was ready for breakfast.
As if summoned by the thought alone, there were three raps against the door.
Francis climbed out of bed mechanically, crossed the room in his pyjamas, and opened the door. There was Trove, looking his usual self. Had he slept last night? Had anyone on this ship?
“Good morning,” said Trove. “Breakfast is just being served.”
“I think I’ll skip it today,” Francis said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Not feeling especially hungry.”
“I see. I suppose it has been a rather exciting twenty-four hours.” Trove shuffled his clipboard from beneath one arm to the other. “Very well. It’ll be available for another thirty minutes if you change your mind. If not, I’ll give you a knock around lunchtime.”
“Thanks.”
The door closed, and Francis fell onto the bed.
It had taken the full night’s thought, but Francis had decided: maybe Natasha was right. Someone willing to send an assassin in the dead of night, who himself was perfectly happy to stick a gun to Francis’s head—well, that person probably didn’t have his best interests at heart.
… maybe. Because Francis couldn’t shake that tiny niggle of doubt in the back of his mind. After all, he’d been referred to as ‘stolen property’. And though, yes, a gun had been pressed into his temple, it was Ruby the assailant had been after. Francis just happened to be the person unlucky enough to have been stumbled upon.
Still, it didn’t do to think about. That man was dead, and they’d fled at full speed. The chance of getting back to The Pharmacologist’s Eden was a big fat zero.
So Francis needed another plan.
Ruby had told him there was no one around for hundreds of miles that had the capability to take him home. And maybe that was true, but they were due to pull into port any day now. Maybe Francis could poke around, ask some questions; see if he could be pointed in the right direction. Natasha might even be willing to help. She seemed to understand what he was going through, even if the captain herself didn’t, with her ill-begotten ideas at integrating him into Pantheon life.
Yes, Francis decided. He would speak to Natasha and see what she said, and maybe, just maybe, he might be able to find an avenue home after all.
4
Ruby was sat in her study, leafing through the diary from the Modicum, when her communicator chimed. It was Evans; he was supposed to be midway through wiring up their new cameras.
“How can I help?” she said into the receiver.
“There’s been a bit of a problem.”
When she arrived at the bottom deck of the ship, Ruby said, “So I see.”
Most of the Pantheon’s machinery was clustered down here, including the two batteries that stored excess power from the Volum. Battery One had shorted out again, and in turn caused a fault in one of the condensers.
The Pantheon housed two water condensing units: one to the ship’s front, another at the rear. They poked out into the atmosphere via apertures in the exterior panelling. Their job was simple: to condense water vapour, purify it, and store it for drinking water, as well as recycling as much waste possible.
It was the rear condenser they clustered around now. Its entire contents had flooded out, pooling half an inch deep.
“Can we fix it?” Ruby asked.
“I’d need to tinker with it,” Evans said. “Couldn’t say right now. It’s amazing the batteries didn’t get wet.”
“Hm.” Ruby glanced about. “We’ll need to move the perishables out of harm’s way.” Peters nodded at this and wheeled into motion, flitting away. “And all of our weapons; gunpowder, cannonballs—is that safe?”
“Should be,” said Mikhail. “It’s all on racks.”
“Would you check?”
> “On it, Captain.”
Ruby frowned as she considered the dead machine. One condenser could certainly generate enough water for the ship, and one battery was more than enough to keep it powered, along with the rest of the Pantheon. Still, it wasn’t ideal; with one of each down, they were out of back-ups.
“See if you can get this thing fixed,” Ruby said.
“What about the water?” Evans asked.
“Poke some holes so it can drain. Only small, mind, and make sure they’re plugged once all is said and done. Any excess, the other condenser should absorb. Can you do that?”
“Aye.”
“Good.” Ruby gave the room another sweeping gaze, then headed along the short corridor. The door to the Volum room, and Benjamin, remained closed. “Has Benjamin been out at all?”
“Are you thinking of the same Ben I am?” Evans called back. “I doubt he’s even noticed.”
Ruby pulled a face. She knocked twice on the door and waited. After ten seconds and no reply, she knocked harder.
It jerked open. “What—” began an irate voice.
“Good morning,” Ruby greeted. “You’re looking well.”
The irritation left Ben’s face—though not necessarily because he was no longer irritated. “Morning, Captain.” He patted at his messy hair, smoothing it to one side. “How can I assist?”
“This deck has been flooded. Had you noticed?”
“I—” Benjamin started. He looked down. To emphasise, Ruby lifted a boot. A momentary waterfall cascaded, ending in a trickle of raindrops. “I did.”
“And you didn’t think to investigate?”
Benjamin looked pained. “I was writing, Miss Celeste.”
“I daresay you were.” Ruby let her boot fall and peered past Benjamin into the Volum room. The floor glistened under the Volum’s soft blue light. “Battery One failed and knocked out a condenser. Mikhail, Evans and Peters will need access to make some drainage holes in your floor.” Before Ben could open his mouth very far, Ruby continued, “You like your privacy when studying, and I understand that. However, I won’t allow the hull to become damaged in order to preserve that privacy for barely more than an hour. Do you understand?”
The Ruby Celeste Series - Box Set, books 1 - 3: Ghost Armada, Dire Kraken, and Church of Ife Page 8