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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  “I don’t envy the person that finds that,” she muttered, before heading back up the deck.

  8

  At dinnertime, there was a knock at Francis’s door. He’d been lying in bed, and with nary a glance at the entryway, he hustled further beneath the covers. Trove could wait, for all he cared; Francis wasn’t coming out. Not tonight, and maybe not tomorrow either.

  The knock came again. A long pause followed. When Francis counted to a minute, he thought, Good, he’s gone.

  Then a third knock. And a voice:

  “Francis, open up. I know you’re in there.”

  Natasha?

  Sitting upright and throwing the covers off, he crossed the room in three strides and tugged the door open. Just beyond, hand hovering and ready to knock again, was Natasha. She paused, stared at Francis, and let her hand drop.

  “Hi.”

  Francis: “Hi.”

  “I thought I’d check on you.”

  “Oh.”

  Francis waited lamely. On the other side of the door frame, Natasha did the same.

  She sighed. “Can I come in? Or would you like to go somewhere?”

  Francis hesitated, then stepped aside. “Come in.” Natasha passed him, and he closed the door. “Sorry about the mess.” He gestured at the bed and its tangle of covers. “I was lying down.”

  “That’s okay.” Natasha pulled out the chair by the desk. “Mind if I sit here?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She sat. Francis stood idle for a moment, then realised he ought to do the same. Smoothing the covers, he made the bed as presentable as he could be bothered—which wasn’t very, but anything was better than the unkempt pit it had been—and lowered himself on it. He shuffled up to the wall and pulled his knees into his chest, and waited.

  “My quarters are about the same,” Natasha said. Aha: pointless chitchat. “They all are on the ship; minor layout changes, but …”

  She trailed off. Her eyes roved the room. When they finally landed on Francis, he lifted his head from where he’d been leaning on his arms and said, “What are you here for?”

  “I said; to check on you. You were upset earlier.”

  A hollow laugh escaped him. “Of course I was.”

  “So I wondered if maybe you wanted to talk about it.”

  “Talk about what? About the fact I’m stuck here? About the fact I don’t have a ride home, and the only avenue I could think of has been snatched away because this ship’s lunatic captain wants to search for ghosts? What am I supposed to say?”

  “It’s not ideal, I know.”

  “Not ideal?” Francis exploded. Suddenly he was on his feet, arms gesticulating wildly. “I was kidnapped, Natasha, and now I’m stuck here with no way back! My parents, my whole life—all of that was ripped away from me, and the one possible way I could get back, the one tiny shred of hope I’ve had, was crushed this morning when Ruby-poxy-Celeste decided she wanted to go after a horde of fucking ghost ships! What am I supposed to say about any of that?”

  Natasha, calmly: “You’re supposed to talk about your feelings.”

  “How do you think I’m feeling?” Francis roared. “Look at me! Listen to me! Am I shouting?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how do you think I feel?”

  “Angry?”

  “Yes! Of course I’m angry!”

  “And scared?”

  “Scared? Let me think,” Francis said, tapping his chin in mock thought. “I’m trapped floating in the sky, on a ship captained by someone who I’ve seen murder several times now—oh, and last night someone descended from the sky in the middle of the night and pointed a gun at my head. Yes, Natasha, I’m scared.” Now he softened, the tension leaving his body; slumping, he let out a long, defeated sigh. “I’m terrified. And … and … and I just shouted at about the only friend I’ve got on this ship. Because she was looking out for me.”

  Dropping onto the bed, Francis shuffled back against the wall and wrapped his legs in his arms again. His head drooped against his forearms. Hiding.

  Lowly, he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “That’s okay.” Natasha’s voice was soft. She moved from the chair to the bed and laid a hand against Francis’s wrist. Light, but enough to feel reassuring. “You needed to get it out.

  “You know,” she carried on after a pause, “I tried to get Ruby to change direction; just to pull us into port.”

  Francis looked up. “You did?”

  “Yes. She declined.”

  Oh. Well, wasn’t that a surprise.

  “Just as you said, we were boarded last night,” Natasha said carefully. “We were heading to The Oft-Trodden Footpath on a straight vector, and the person that boarded us was looking for Ruby specifically. Just in case anyone else is out there, the change of course is for the best. I mean, you wouldn’t want to get snatched by someone even worse than Stein while you’re asking around, would you?”

  Francis didn’t reply. He wanted to find some argument, something that would let him rail against Ruby’s reasons, but nothing came to mind. Natasha was right, again.

  “We’ll still check into port,” Natasha said. “It’ll be a couple of weeks out, but you can still ask around. And I’ll help you.”

  Then she hesitated. Francis sat up straight, wariness seeping in. “But?” he prompted.

  “There’s something you should know.” Natasha’s words came slowly, and it took everything Francis had in him not to press her to speak faster. “What you were told before, about there being no one in this area with the capability to get down to the surface—well, it’s true. But it’s a little more far-reaching than that. People that have the tech to get to the surface and back again—they’re very few and far between. I’ve been on this ship for four years, travelled all over, and Rhod Stein was one of only a handful I’ve heard of that could do it.”

  “But,” Francis started. “But—but if he can, someone else could?”

  “I don’t know who, or how,” Natasha said. “The Volum can keep us aloft here, but closer to the ground … Volum, and ships, are designed to stay in the air. If they drop too close to the surface—”

  “They’re too heavy to lift again,” Francis finished. “But somehow Rhod had a way; he had to. So maybe someone else does too.”

  Natasha nodded. “I imagine some do, here and there. But it’s very, very costly.”

  “It can’t have been too costly for Rhod. Otherwise he wouldn’t have snatched me. He wanted to sell me, right? He had to have been making a profit. And if I was cheap enough for Ruby to buy, and Rhod was making a profit—surely she can cover the price. Right?”

  “No.” Natasha sighed and rearranged herself on the edge of the bed. “Your cost—it was paid in instalments. One fee upfront, and then monthly payments for the next fifteen years; like a mortgage. If it was a single cost, Ruby would never have been able to purchase you.”

  Quiet. Then: “So what you’re saying is I am stuck here.”

  “No. We’re going to ask around as soon as we pull into the next port, I promise.” Natasha reached out again and touched his wrist. “But I want to be realistic with you. There is hope—but it may not be much.”

  The room fell into silence. Not even Francis’s mind was working: it had stalled, fallen still. No ceaseless examination of everything he’d just been told, no turning it over in every direction, desperately hoping to spot some small hole through which he might root out an escape. Only a death knell rang in his mind.

  “I’m sorry,” said Natasha.

  Francis shrugged. “Not your fault. Thanks for being honest with me.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”

  “You were looking out for me.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No,” Francis said with a tiny shake of the head. “I … I think I’d like to be alone now.”

  “Okay. But if you change your mind, find me.”

  “Will do.”<
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  The door swung open, then shut. Francis didn’t look up as Natasha left.

  For a long time, he sat and stared, listening to the noises of the ship, feeling the subtle pull as a course refinement nudged the Pantheon along a slightly different vector. No thought went through his brain; just Natasha’s words, stark and clear. Defeat had piled upon him, and this time the miniscule opportunity to snatch victory from its jaws was so quantum as to not even exist.

  Sighing, he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. At some point, the bulb above him flickered for an instant. It would flicker again, for longer, but by that time Francis had been defeated for the second time today: by sleep.

  Integration

  (Chapter Nine)

  1

  The mood Francis woke up in the following morning was complex, but heralded by one single word as he stared at the ceiling:

  Home.

  This was it. Here, the Pantheon, was his home now. These people were his new family. And that meant acting like it. No sitting around in libraries with books, hoping to avoid everyone (or almost everyone); no more shutting himself in this room with nothing to do but sit idly and think over the same thing again and again. No more being closed off, no more acting little more than a prisoner with privileges. Yes, he was stuck, but that didn’t mean he had to be sullen for the rest of his life, even if it was a life aboard a flying ship.

  It was a strange series of emotions: part resignation, part defeat, but also part determination, too.

  This processed, Francis climbed out of bed. He pulled on his clothes; a blue shirt that didn’t fit, and trousers that were almost tight enough at his waist but far too wide at his heels. Surveying himself in the mirror, he pulled at the loose folds of material. What was it Ruby had said, back on his first morning here? That was it: Vala was the ship’s seamstress; she could take the clothes in. Maybe he would catch her at breakfast.

  Instead of waiting for Trove, he left his room and wandered down the corridor to the cafeteria. No one else was there, and in fact Samuel was still filling the serving station. Today there was omelette and toast, or cereal.

  “Morning,” Francis said.

  Samuel grunted and waved a hand; not ready yet.

  Francis hovered outside for a few minutes, wondering if anyone else would arrive soon. Then Samuel grunted something again, which Francis took to mean, “You can come in now,” and so he stepped back through the door, grabbed a tray, plate and cutlery, and let Samuel drop an omelette and two slices of buttered toast down for him.

  “Thanks.”

  Another grunt.

  With pick of the tables, he perched down alongside a wall. He eyed the position Natasha usually took, over in the corner; perhaps he could sit with her when she arrived. Or maybe wave her over.

  He’d start by apologising for last night, he thought. Then maybe he’d ask what he could do aboard the ship to help out. Probably nothing in the control centre; all those workstations had looked rather technical. But maybe she could give him some advice, or even training.

  Two-thirds of Francis’s omelette was gone by the time the trickle of diners got started. It hadn’t taken long; he was famished after another day of pointlessly starving himself. Probably he’d be completely finished before Natasha even arrived.

  “Morning,” said Herschel as he passed; Francis, mid-chew, swallowed hard and choked out a response.

  Amelie next; then Evans and Peters, already laughing about something; then Vala and Stefan. Francis watched as they were served together, Vala opting for cereal and Stefan taking an extra slice of toast when Samuel’s back was turned. As they headed toward their usual spot, Francis put down his knife and fork and waved a hand.

  “Vala—hey.”

  Confusion swept her face for a second—this was the first time Francis had ever spoken to her, after all—before she smiled, patted Stefan on the arm and then crossed to Francis.

  “Good morning,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Um, Ruby said you’re the ship’s seamstress?”

  “That I am.”

  “Would you be able to take my clothes in for me?” Grabbing a fold of his too-large shirt, Francis flapped it. “Most of them are kind of big.”

  “Of course! Do you know your measurements?”

  “Um, no.” Francis’s cheeks coloured. “Sorry.”

  “Not a worry. I’ve got measuring tape; we’ll get you sorted.”

  “Excellent. Thanks.”

  “Are you free today?” Vala asked. “I’ve got a couple of hours after breakfast. It’s short-notice, but Stefan’s got the afternoon off. And I rather think I ought to spend it with him, given he’s my husband,” she added in a lower voice, winking conspiratorially.

  “Yeah, of course,” said Francis.

  “You know where my room is?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, it has my name on it, so just check out the plaque.” Smiling again, Vala glanced at her bowl. “I’d better get to the table, or these are going to go soggy.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry.”

  “See you shortly, Francis.”

  And off she went.

  Francis had barely chewed half of his bite of toast before there was a small noise of surprise. Looking around, he saw Trove wending his way toward him.

  “You’re already here,” he observed. “I’ve just been knocking at your door.”

  “I woke up early,” Francis said with a shrug. “Thought I may as well come down, see what was on the menu.”

  “Something unpleasant, I’ve come to expect.”

  “Omelette and toast. Not bad.”

  “I daresay you’ll reconsider after you’ve been here longer.” Trove paused. “Well, I shall get breakfast of my own, then.”

  He trotted away and joined the small queue. Francis eyed them, but Natasha wasn’t among the tiny throng: Darrel was making conversation with Mikhail, and beside them was a waiflike woman who Francis had seen only once or twice: one of the night-shift technicians, apparently joining Stefan’s ranks in having a day to herself.

  A minute or so later, Trove rejoined Francis at the table with an omelette and toast of his own. Wordlessly, he pushed the toast onto Francis’s empty plate, before cutting off a small piece of omelette.

  “Um,” said Francis.

  “Thought you could do with the sustenance after yesterday’s hunger strike.” Trove ate a small square of egg, then pulled a face. “Besides, Samuel’s cooking rarely agrees with me. Even the toast.”

  “I see. Err, thanks.”

  2

  There was still no sign of Natasha by the time Vala had finished her cereal, so she and Francis left together.

  Vala and Stefan had a larger room than Francis’s, longer by around two-thirds. Instead of a single there was a double bed—which turned out to be two singles pushed together. The decoration was far less sparse, too; embroidery was mounted in several places, books were arranged neatly on shelves, on the desk was an enormous fold-out box of Vala’s sewing equipment—needles, thread, boxes of thimbles of all different sizes, off-cuts of materials—and beside it was a mannequin adorned by a half-finished chemise, blue material flowing halfway to the floor. But most noticeable were the hordes of plants packing the space, from spidery little things to a miniature tree with waxy red leaves. One of the smaller plants was flowering, heads fat and purple.

  “That’s a charis,” Vala said. “I expect you have them down on the surface, don’t you?”

  “Maybe,” said Francis. “I don’t know much about plants.” He stepped closer and bent down. A subtle tang wafted up at him. Under the lights, tiny specks in the petals sparkled. “It looks like glitter.”

  “That’s why I like it.” Vala gave the plant an affectionate look, then set about foraging in her sewing box. “Stefan got it for me; wedding present.”

  “Have you been married long?”

  “Two years, eight months.” Vala pulled out a plastic box of needles and laid
them aside. “And sixteen days, but don’t tell him I’m counting.

  “Now, if you drop that pile of clothes on the bed there—that’ll do, thanks—we can get started. If you can stand just here …” Vala waved Francis into the small amount of free space in the middle of the floor. “Perfect. Now, hold your arms up—little bit higher—here we go, like that. Hold still.”

  She began to fuss over him, starting with the shirt, wadding up material and then beginning to pin back folds. Francis twitched at the first feel of cold metal.

  “I shan’t stab you; these are practised hands,” Vala said.

  The shirt done with, she moved down to his trousers.

  “Let me just move this leg,” she said, pulling at his ankle. Francis obliged, and Vala’s folding and pinning resumed.

  “You should have come to see me sooner. I could have got these tightened up for you in no time.”

  “Sorry. I guess I was distracted.”

  “Yes, you did have that air about you. I must say, you rather surprised me this morning. It may well have been the first time I’ve heard you speak.”

  “Sorry,” Francis said again.

  “Don’t worry! Nothing to apologise for.”

  Once both of the legs were filled with pins, Vala returned to her sewing box. She produced a measuring tape and a small pad, upon which was clipped a tiny pencil. Flicking through pages of delicate numbers, she found a blank spot close to the back and smoothed the book open.

  “I’m just going to measure you so we don’t have to pin all of these,” she said. “Arms up again—there we are, that’s it.”

  She hummed to herself as she moved around Francis, wrapping the tape about him in every place she could seem to think of, then noting down what it read. Now or again she would scrutinise the folds she’d pinned back, mutter something to herself and revise a figure, then carry on.

  “So what’s it like down there?” she asked after a while.

  “Hm?”

  “The surface.”

  “Oh. Um.” Francis thought. He wanted to shrug, but didn’t dare risk moving for all the needles. “It’s nice. I live in a little town. There’s a park near me, with a pond. Some fields; agriculture. Just … normal, I suppose.”