The Ruby Celeste Series - Box Set, books 1 - 3: Ghost Armada, Dire Kraken, and Church of Ife
Page 11
“I’ve seen pictures,” Vala said. “Of cities and things, and nature. I find it rather interesting.”
“You’re the first person to ask me about it.”
“Am I? I’d have thought Miss Brady …” She trailed off. “We’re all curious, Francis. But you’ve … well, had some trouble adjusting, so we’ve been letting you get your head around things.”
“I see.”
“Can your people get up here?” Vala asked.
Now Francis did shrug, just slightly; the tiniest incline he could give to his shoulders without really shifting. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He pondered. Sadness crept into his stomach, so he shifted the conversation. “Do you have towns and cities up here? Or does everyone just fly around in ships?”
“We do indeed have towns and cities,” Vala said. “And forests, too.”
Francis frowned. “What?”
“Floating islands. They’re rather rare, but a glorious sight.”
“But how—”
“Packed full of Volum, I imagine.” Vala took one last measurement about Francis’s heel, noted it, and made a satisfied noise. “All done. I can get to work on the rest of these.” She started pulling pins out again, dropping them into their container, which lay open next to Francis’s feet.
“Will they take long?”
“Not very. I won’t get much done today, because of Stefan’s day off.” She gave an exaggerated roll of the eyes and a mock tut. Francis smiled. “But tomorrow I’ll get most of the way through; maybe even the lot. You’re okay for clothes today and tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Francis nodded. “Got the clothes I came here in for tomorrow, and these for today.”
“Yes—drop these ones in to me tomorrow morning after breakfast, will you? And hopefully in a couple of days’ time you’ll have the equivalent of a whole new wardrobe to kit yourself out in.”
Francis grinned at that. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem. Have a good day, Francis.”
“You too.”
Vala was already starting when Francis left the room, sat down at her table and withdrawing spools of thread to match the topmost shirt on Francis’s stack. He pulled the door closed, then fiddled with all the spare material flapping around his midriff. Perhaps he ought to have kept those pins in place after all.
3
The door to the Pantheon’s control centre was open as Francis passed by. He glanced inside; Amelie was already at a console, scrolling through green text, as was Stefan further back. There was also Natasha, balancing a plate precariously on her knee and eating toast.
“Hi,” Francis said from the doorway.
She looked up and waved him in. “Morning.”
“This your breakfast?” Francis asked.
“Yes,” Natasha answered, long and low. “I woke up late; poor sleep,” she confided. Brushing crumbs from her fingers onto the plate, she rearranged herself in the chair and said, “So what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if maybe there might be a job you could give me. Something to do.”
“Oh?” One of Natasha’s eyebrows quirked. “Well, I don’t really know. There’s not a lot I can give to you in here; it’s pretty specialist, and the hours are long.”
“Hear, hear,” Stefan called from the back of the room.
“Why don’t you go find Mikhail?” Natasha suggested. “He does a lot of general work; much more varied and interesting than staring at numbers and diagnostic reports.”
“Okay. Do you know where I can find him?”
“They’re on the bottom deck today. Plugging the holes they made in the floor.” Natasha cast a distracted glance at her screen, then back to Francis. “Sorry I can’t help more. Is that okay, talking to Mikhail?”
“Sure, fine. Thanks.”
“Any time.”
“Are you free this evening?” Francis asked.
“Should be. Anything in mind?”
He shrugged. “Hang out.”
“Good enough plan. I’ll catch you later.”
Francis wandered from the control room and headed for the stairs between levels.
Now, mid-morning looming, most people on the ship were awake. As he passed the cafeteria, he spotted Herschel cleaning up—relegated to janitorial duty, apparently. Beyond the serving station, Francis could see Samuel bent over the ship’s huge oven, stirring a pan.
Voices sung up from the bottom deck before Francis was even partway down the stairs. No wonder: Evans and Peters were hollering songs back and forth as they each perched over a fist-sized hole in the floor, filling the gaps with a thick, sludgy grey substance. Further back, squatted over a hole of his own, was Mikhail, whose face was creased with sniggers.
“Morning,” Francis called nervously.
Three faces looked up. The singing ceased. Peters cast a momentary look at Evans and then Mikhail, then gave Francis a nod. “Morning, Francis.”
“I wondered if maybe there was a job,” Francis said.
“Aha.” Mikhail that time. “You did?” He stood. A rag was stuffed into his belt; pulling it out, he wiped his hands, then stepped forward and joined Francis. He stuck out his hand, and they shook. “Anything in mind?”
Francis shrugged. “Natasha said you’d be able to suggest something.”
“Smart woman, that Natasha,” said Mikhail. “Well, right now we’re doing exactly what you see: sealing holes. It’s not interesting work, but it’s simple enough to get started on. Sound good?”
Francis nodded. “Sure.”
“Good stuff. Come on over, I’ll walk you through it.”
“Keep half an eye on us,” Evans said to Francis as they walked past him. “He’s a liability. Might teach you wrong and only realise in a day’s time, when there’s a bloody great hole in the bottom of the ship.”
“Or worse,” Peters added.
“Comedians,” said Mikhail. To Francis: “You’ve met these two clowns, right? Reuben Evans, and Glim Peters.” He pointed at each in turn, and the two men pulled cheesy grins. Peters even crossed his eyes. “What names, eh?”
“Says Mikhail,” Peters called. “Who names their kid Mikhail?”
“Ignore him,” Mikhail said to Francis. “He’s still sore his parents misspelled their feelings at having bore him as a child.”
“What’s that then?”
“Glum.”
Evans guffawed; Peters scooped up a handful of the grey goop and flicked it at him, painting a dirty line across his overalls. Evans shouted, “Hey!” and Peters shot him a dark grin, before going back to shouting the song he’d been crooning before Francis descended the stairs.
“Like children,” Mikhail said, shaking his head with a smile. “They’re hoping to piss off Benjamin,” he told Francis.
Francis glanced at the door to the Volum room. Closed. “Has he been out at all?”
“Not yet. Only a matter of time, though; those two have been getting louder.”
Squatting down again beside the hole he’d been filling, Mikhail patted the deck. Francis sunk to a crouch, half-trying not to stare out of the hole. Wisps of cloud were just visible, and beyond was a patch of green blurred by the cover of cotton.
“This here is sealant,” Mikhail said. He lifted up a plastic tub which was filled with grey goo. Placing the tub back down, he lifted a smaller container: this one round and filled with black powder, as well as a plastic scoop. “In the presence of this, it’s quick-drying, which is always handy. It’s as strong as steel, which is why we’re using it to patch up these holes.
“The trick is to mix them and act fast. You’ve got about ten seconds before it starts to rubberise, and then thirty seconds after that it’s solid as a rock.”
Next to Mikhail’s knees was a flat-headed tool and something that looked as though it might once have been a plate, before becoming a stained, uneven mess. Taking the tool in hand, Mikhail said, “It’s relatively easy once you get into a rhythm. First, a spot of this.” With his free hand, he
poured out a generous amount of goo. It gave off a plasticky odour, and Francis pulled a face. “Pleasant, isn’t it?”
“Can’t be worse than you,” Evans called over. Mikhail stuck up his middle finger.
“Now a spoon of this.” He scooped out a pile of black powder. “And now we mix.”
With quick, assured movements, he used the scraper to churn goo and powder together. The smell intensified for a second, and then was abruptly replaced by what Francis could only describe as burning. His nose scrunched up.
“That’s the smell you’re waiting for,” said Mikhail. “Soon as you smell that, you’re set to plug the hole.”
To demonstrate, he scooped up the material. It came all as one gelatinous lump. With a flip, he pushed it down over the hole. Though Francis thought it might simply fall through, it did no such thing: when Mikhail lifted the scraper and began to smooth over the top, it held firm. After a few more movements that looked too casual to be as precise as they surely were, it was almost impossible to see where the hull and sealant joined.
“Done.” Mikhail sat back and looked across to Francis. “Think you can manage that?”
“I might need to watch it again first,” Francis said.
Mikhail laughed. “Not a problem, not a problem. Plenty of holes down here; we had a lot of water to drain.”
“Yeah.” Francis looked about. Mikhail was right: there were pocks everywhere. “What actually happened?”
“Battery malfunction caused a fault in one of our water condensers,” Evans said. “Spilled its contents everywhere.”
“Techie here is meant to be repairing it,” Peters chimed, pointing at Evans with his scoop. “Hasn’t managed yet though. Reckon he’s lost his knack, I do. Might have to get a real techie in here to fix it.”
Evans responded with a string of expletives, and then affixed Paige with a grin. “Glum doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Difficult things, those condensers. It’ll be up and running again in no time. Which is more than I can say for him if he’s not careful.”
“Oh yeah? What’re you going to do?”
“Shove this where the sun doesn’t shine, then plug the gap with sealant so you never—”
“Let’s leave them to it,” Mikhail said. Shuffling over to the next hole, he said, “Come on, I’ll do this one, then you can try the next.”
It turned out plugging holes was more difficult than Mikhail made it look. Francis’s first attempt dried before the hole was filled, and the second time he didn’t pour out quite enough, so instead of holding firm it simply dropped through the gap.
“Ouch,” Mikhail said as he watched it disappear. “Someone’s going to feel that.”
The third attempt went slightly better though, and every one after that followed the same pattern of gradual improvement. Although they didn’t look quite as smooth as Mikhail’s, with their uneven joins and smeary tops, Francis was pleased with his handiwork.
The morning vanished before Francis’s eyes. It felt like he’d only been at work for less than an hour when Mikhail checked the time on his communicator and clapped his hands together.
“Lunch time, lads. We’ll get back to this shortly.”
“That’s a shame,” said Peters. “I was really enjoying Reuben’s singing.”
“Yeah,” Evans said. “It’s a shame Ben seems to be enjoying it too. Look: hasn’t even cracked the door to tell me to stop. I feel like a failure.”
4
“Whatcha reading?”
Francis looked up. In the doorway to the library stood Natasha, arm leaned casually against the frame, crooked smile on her face.
“Some story,” Francis said. He flipped the book closed and lifted it to show Natasha the cover. “Don’t know what it’s called; name has faded.”
“Any good?”
“Not really.” Francis placed it aside. “So what are we doing?”
“Sit and read?” Natasha suggested. Francis pulled a face, and she said, “Unless you have any other ideas?”
“I wondered,” Francis said, and hesitated. “Maybe we could go sit on the top deck.”
“Aha. Sightseeing?”
“Something like that.”
They headed up. Francis worried he might chicken out when he reached the ladder, and for a second a flashback of his last excursion topside—every excursion, really—played in his mind. But he overcame it and climbed, feet slow and careful on the rungs, finally pulling himself through the porthole and trying his hardest not to look at the edges.
“Still afraid, huh?” Natasha asked.
“Got to face it sometime,” he muttered.
“Hah. Come on, we’ll do it together.”
She looped her arm around his and stepped in close. “You ready?” Francis nodded, and Natasha laughed. “You don’t look ready. You look decidedly pale.”
“Let’s just be slow about this,” he said.
Along the deck they walked, arms linked. When Francis paused, Natasha paused too, waiting patiently until he was ready to carry on. When he took a step, no matter how small or hesitant, she matched it, not stepping further ahead nor lagging behind. She chattered to him about her day, engaging him just enough to keep his mind from focussing entirely on this short jaunt.
It took maybe ten minutes, but at last they were within half a metre of the Pantheon’s side railing. Like before, Francis’s progress had slowed to a crawl.
“You’re very brave, doing this,” Natasha said.
“I think you have to say that,” said Francis. There was a nervous undertone to his voice, a waver to his words. “It’s like kids; make a big deal out of nothing so they feel reassured and good about themselves.”
“I don’t have to say anything. But this is a very big thing for you. I know you’re being brave, and I’m proud of you. Now: do you want to take the last couple of steps, or stop here? I don’t mind; it’s up to you.”
Francis opened his eyes. They had alternated between jammed shut and open just fractionally. Whenever they were open, he’d pointed them up, staring at the Pantheon’s fins and the evening sky, awash with pink. But now he pointed them straight forward, to rest on the railing—and past it, miles and miles of nothing.
“I can do this,” he said.
“You can.”
He gave a resolute nod. “Last couple of steps, then.”
They took one. The second step died and Francis inched backward. For a fleeting second he thought he was in danger of overbalancing, but Natasha had him by the arm and his footing was sure.
He breathed long and deep. “Okay.”
Natasha: “Okay?”
“Last step.”
It was more of a lurch, really, but he made it nonetheless—they made it. He was stood on the very edge of the ship; could reach out and touch the rails. In fact—
“Here,” said Natasha. She unwound her arm, then took each of Francis’s wrists. Gently, she moved his arms forward, closing the gap, until his hands rested on cold metal. Instantly his fingers curled into an iron grip. Yet still Natasha held on, and as the seconds passed he felt the tension in his hands loosen, just minutely.
“Going to open your eyes?” Natasha asked. “Again, you don’t have to.”
Another heave of a breath. “Okay.”
Prying them open now was the hardest it had ever been. Yet somehow he managed, and after the blur cleared Francis found himself staring out into soft pastels, a faint streak of cloud painted below, and beneath that, land: great and rolling, but averaged out into a flat patchwork quilt of textures and colours. What had once been home.
His breath came out in a whisper. “Wow.”
“Majestic, isn’t it?” Natasha said. “Sometimes I come up here just to look out; organise my thoughts. It’s rather beautiful.”
Majestic, beautiful: two words that summed it up perfectly. Better than any Francis could have chosen.
“It all seemed so plain,” he said.
“Hm?”
“Down there
. It was just … normal. But from up here …” Francis’s words trailed off. His eyes scanned. He wondered what direction they were going; how far he’d been carried from home. Would his house be somewhere within view? His parents?
No. They were someone else, far, far behind.
“I’d like to go back to the middle now.”
Back they went. Beneath the closest fin, a half-dozen metres behind the porthole, they sat, Francis leaned against one side of the strut and Natasha perched next to him, long legs crossed.
“You did really well, Francis,” she said. “I’m really, honestly proud of you.”
He pulled a small smile. “Thanks for being there with me. You’re better than her, you know?”
“Ruby?”
Francis nodded. “She just forced me—dragged me. You’re patient. Thanks for that.”
“Think nothing of it. Just looking out for a friend.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching. There was still fear in Francis’s chest, but it had lessened. Now it was manageable; now he thought he could stand by the railing again, for longer. Not peering down—that would be madness—but out, certainly.
A soft breeze whispered through. Overhead, the Pantheon’s fins twitched, and the landscape began to slowly shift to one side.
“Course refinement,” Natasha said, glancing up. “That’ll be Sia, I should think.
“So, you found Mikhail then?”
“I did.”
“I saw you all at lunch,” Natasha said.
Francis frowned. “Did you?” He racked his brain; he’d been looking out for Natasha, but hadn’t spotted her. “Where were you?”
“Just stepped in for a moment. I’m steeped in reports right now, so didn’t have much time to stop and eat. Besides, you looked like you were having fun. First time I’ve seen you laughing, I think.”
“They’re good guys. I like them.”
“Were you plugging the drainage holes?”
Francis filled her in on the morning and afternoon, and his passing adequacy at the task. Natasha laughed when he told her about the glob of sealant that had fallen straight through the hole on his second attempt, and he found himself laughing along with her.