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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  A sombre chorus followed: “To Ben.”

  A roar of thunder pocked the afternoon as the six side cannons unloaded a volley. Five seconds passed, then another volley, and a third five seconds later.

  Reflective silence for a minute, then Ruby looked up at her crew and replaced the tricorne on her head. They were dismissed with a nod. Slowly, the crowd split into groups and dispersed. Some stayed on the deck—Vala and Stefan wandered arm-in-arm to the front of the ship, where they held each other and looked out—while others headed back inside, filtering down the porthole.

  Francis hovered. Natasha, one of the few in full black, was stood mutely by Mikhail. They’d been relegated to the back row for their height. Francis moved to them now. He pulled a wan smile, which Natasha returned. Mikhail squeezed her shoulder.

  “Hi,” Francis greeted.

  “Hey.”

  “So what’s the plan now?”

  “Afternoon off,” Mikhail said.

  “What about the Volum room?” said Natasha. “There could be something inside we need to see. Some clue as to why …” Her voice quivered.

  Mikhail: “I—”

  “It’ll be easier to get it out of the way. For everyone.”

  Mikhail considered. He and Francis locked eyes. Francis lifted his shoulders in a minute shrug.

  “Okay. We’ll do it now. But you don’t have to be there for this, Tasha.”

  “I want to be. I have to know what drove him to this.”

  “Okay.” Mikhail looked to Francis. “You in?”

  “Got nothing better to do.”

  A grin ghosted Mikhail’s lips. “That’s the spirit. I’ll show you how to break through sealant.”

  “Okay.”

  Natasha: “We should get Ruby, too. And Trove. They’ll want to see as well.”

  Yes, Francis thought. I daresay they will. He risked a look at Ruby. She and Trove stood by the ship’s railing. As Francis watched, Ruby sighed, then leaned against the rail and held her head in her hands. Guilt?

  He hoped so.

  2

  Maintenance equipment was housed in the same room as munitions on the Pantheon’s bottom deck. Francis had never really been in here, so to step in alongside Mikhail and Natasha—Ruby and Trove would join them later, when they’d succeeded in blasting through the door—was an enlightening experience.

  For one, a full side of the room brimmed with cannonballs. Piled onto floor-to-ceiling racks several deep, there had to be enough to last a decade.

  Beside was a locked cabinet. Yellowed and faded, a label was stuck to its front: AMMUNITION.

  Along the other side of the room was the maintenance equipment, arranged on shelving and cabinets. Bottles and cans and tubs and boxes, plus tools of all different shapes and sizes. It was remarkably well ordered, given the mess Francis was accustomed to in the pantry, though maybe that was because Mikhail and his team did a better job of keeping everything in check, compared to shoving things around and throwing carrots across the floor.

  But most noticeable:

  “It’s rusting in here, too,” Francis said.

  Mikhail didn’t look up from his search. “That it is. Nasty stuff. Going to have to spend tomorrow trying to scrub it all off.”

  Red was everywhere. Some blooms had spread so far their outer edges were touching, connected. One particularly nasty spot looked like a very shallow but wide crater, and when Francis extended a finger, a thin strip of reddened steel coiled up to meet him, then split off and fluttered to the ground.

  It had started to swallow the cannonballs, too. Only little flecks so far. And the rack was dotted with brown. And the ammo cabinet—and its lock.

  “Why’s it so bad?” Francis asked. “I only saw it a few days ago.”

  “Must be a lot of moisture down here,” said Mikhail. “Only got one working condenser, remember; probably isn’t doing a good enough job by itself.”

  “Hm.”

  This was beginning to get ridiculous. For all Natasha’s reassurance that the ship was fine, things seemed to be going wrong an awful lot right now.

  “It’s like it’s eating the ship,” Francis said. He had circled the room and was back to that crater. Its mottled centre was like something from a nightmare. He moved to touch it again, but changed his mind.

  “That’s what rust does. Don’t worry; it’s aesthetic.”

  “That doesn’t look aesthetic.”

  Mikhail glanced up at the patch Francis pointed at. “Well, mostly aesthetic then. Spots like that we’ll just fill with sealant. Job done. Now—aha. Here we go.”

  Mikhail rose holding a fat plastic tub, and on top of that, a very small metal container with an oversized lid. The stack was topped by three pairs of thick gloves, a cluster of face masks, and another three pairs of goggles.

  “You’ll want those. This stuff is nasty.”

  “What is it?” Francis asked.

  “Sort of like the sealant, but has the opposite effect.”

  “It’s also explosive,” Natasha added.

  “Always ruining the fun,” said Mikhail. He stuck his tongue out at Natasha and got a middle finger back, then grinned at Francis. “No need to be wide-eyed. It only explodes a little bit. It’s very contained, but pretty powerful. That’s what the goggles and gloves are for.”

  “What about the rest of me?” Francis asked.

  “You’re responsible for that.”

  Francis swallowed hard. He’d pictured them chiselling the sealant off somehow, or maybe applying something that could dissolve it. Hell, the way the rust was spreading, maybe they could wait and hope that did the job. Explosives, though?

  “And the face masks?”

  “It smells.”

  “Like rot,” Natasha clarified.

  “Brilliant,” Mikhail said. “Now I won’t be able to convince him to have a sniff.”

  “That’s the point. Come on, let’s get on with it.”

  They filed out of the room and into the corridor. Now a third bulb had joined the other two dead ones. Mikhail and Natasha carried on as if it were nothing, but Francis grimaced as he passed under this new patch of darkness. Fingers crossed Natasha could convince Ruby to stop by Cacophonous Harmonics and get someone to take a look at this mess of a ship.

  They donned their protective gear—not that Francis felt particularly protected. Just in case, he hovered near the back of the trio: the extra distance would help in case anything winged his direction. Maybe.

  Mikhail squatted and opened the large tub. “This is your base,” he said to Francis. It was two-thirds full with something vibrant orange. A wooden stick was dipped in the stuff. At first Francis thought it was like paint, but when Mikhail took the stick and stirred, it was too viscous—far too viscous. Even more rubbery than the goo the sealant had started out as.

  “I’ll get one of these for each of you in a second,” Mikhail said.

  “Hang on, I’ll do it,” said Natasha. “Keep explaining to Francis.”

  “So, this is your base,” Mikhail repeated. Now, using this—” he waved the stick “—we apply a tiny amount to the sealant. Only a tiny amount, and only the sealant.” To emphasise, he fought with the orange rubber for a few seconds, then pulled the stirrer out. It came with a horrid sucking noise. It was dry: not a trace of orange marred it. Then Mikhail dipped the edge of the stick back in, which Francis saw now had a flat, hardened edge, and by pressing toward the edge of the tub was able to separate a coin-sized globule. He lifted it to show Francis the size, then smeared it very carefully into a line against the sealant around the Volum room door.

  Natasha came back in and passed Francis his spreader. He nodded his thanks.

  “Now.” Mikhail picked up the metal container. “This stuff.” He passed it up to Francis, who took it very, very carefully. “The lid is a combination lock. Only a couple of us know the combo, yours truly included. I’m afraid I won’t be sharing it with you.”

  “Good,” Francis said over a n
ervous laugh. He passed the container back.

  “I like the way you think.” Mikhail fiddled with the dials, and a few seconds later the lid popped off. “Same deal as the sealant; more powder.” A tiny metal scoop was inside this container, and Mikhail lifted it out sporting no more than a few glittering black grains. “Press it against the base, and then wait.”

  In one fluid motion, he pressed the scoop to the smear of orange. Then he inched back and sat crouched, watching and waiting.

  Nothing happened at first. But after ten seconds or so, something sparked—and a moment later there was a tiny, high-pitched explosion and a blinding flash. Francis shut his eyes, threw up his arms.

  “Done.”

  Francis looked. So it was: a patch a few inches wide and a couple deep had been blown in the sealant. The edge of the door wasn’t visible yet—there was too much sealant for that still—but with another repeat or two, it would be.

  “Highly contained, very small, and vaporises steel. Another reason we’ve got these face masks.” Mikhail looked between Natasha and Francis in turn. “So,” he said. “Shall we get started?”

  3

  Even with the three of them, the task was long and arduous. Francis peeled off briefly to help Samuel collect ingredients for dinner, and then an hour later they all got pause to go up and eat.

  The mood in the canteen was sombre. And although Francis had never seen Ben in the cafeteria, today it felt as though there was some gulf left by his absence, as if things in the room weren’t quite correct.

  Ruby was in attendance today, sitting with Trove. She looked weary. Didn’t seem hungry, too; half a plate of pasta sat unfinished before her, quills pushed around but not eaten.

  Francis was surprised by his appetite. But breaking through a sealed door with explosives was clearly the kind of job that worked one up, because he wolfed his pasta down and was tempted to ask Samuel for seconds. No need, luckily: Natasha wasn’t eating much either, and scooped the rest of hers onto Francis’s plate.

  “Come on then,” she said as soon as Francis had finished his last bite. “Let’s get back to it.”

  It was another three hours before Mikhail finally stepped back from the door and said, “Shall we call Ruby?”

  The door was a mess. The edges were battered, wood destroyed by the many blasts, revealing solid steel beneath. Every inch was blackened. Save for a thin seal where the door handle used to be—now only a gaping hole remained—the Volum room was accessible once more. Along with whatever lay inside.

  “Okay,” said Natasha.

  Mikhail thumbed his communicator, touched a couple of buttons. A moment later: “Mikhail?”

  “Miss Celeste,” he said. “We’re almost through.”

  “I’ll be down in a moment.”

  The three exchanged looks. They had all reeled at what might be inside. What had driven Ben to madness and lured him over the edge of the ship to a watery grave? Francis couldn’t even imagine. And now the answer was almost upon him—if indeed there was one. They might open this sealed vault and find nothing more than what Francis had seen on his first day here: the Volum, pulsing light, bags of pellets, and shelves packed full of ledgers.

  But then, if that was the case, why seal the room at all?

  Mikhail applied the last of the orange goo while they waited, then detonated it.

  “We’re through.”

  Tension hung in the air. None of them said a word.

  Two pairs of footsteps came from behind.

  “Are we ready to go in?” Ruby asked.

  Mikhail nodded. “Would you like to?” he offered. But Ruby shook her head, so he said, “Okay then.”

  He rested a hand on the door. Francis’s heart raced.

  Pushed.

  It swung open.

  The smell hit Francis first. Even through his face mask he was assaulted with the stench of effluent. He fought the urge to gag and failed; turning and hurrying away, he yanked the mask aside and vomited. Someone else did the same.

  Once he’d finished retching, Francis wiped his mouth on his sleeve and replaced the face mask. The others had gone inside. The only thing was to follow.

  The Volum room was a mess. Defiled. Excrement smeared the walls, shelves had been trashed, ledgers were everywhere. Across one wall was smeared the word ‘INFECTION’. The same disgusting mural was painted beneath in smaller letters, all written in uneven capitals.

  There was rust, too. Somehow it was worse here: it covered every inch of every wall, had snaked across the ceiling, began eating at the cables. Great patches were dimpled, the steel lifting away. Flecks of eaten metal covered the floor. So bad was it that the walls didn’t seem to be steel anymore: now they looked unstable, as if the slightest touch would cause the place to fall.

  But the light, Francis realised. Part of his brain had clocked it the moment the door was open, the same moment his body had to override him and empty its contents on the floor.

  The entire room was lit in dull amber. And in the middle, the Volum: still huge, but somehow smaller than Francis remembered, its face downturned, its breathing laboured. No pulsing light came from it: just a steady, low glow.

  “It’s orange,” Francis muttered. “Isn’t it meant to be blue?”

  A long silence. Then, at last Trove answered, “Yes. That’s right.”

  “So why—”

  But Francis didn’t get time to finish, because an explosion rocked the ship. Careening sideways, he crashed into a desk. Wood connected with his head; he grunted as stars exploded across his vision.

  “What the hell was that?” Natasha cried.

  A familiar alarm began to wail.

  From his place on the floor, Francis stared at four ashen faces.

  They were being attacked.

  The Pantheon, Boarded

  (Chapter Fourteen)

  1

  Voices filled the Pantheon’s control centre as Ruby hurtled through the open doorway, Natasha, Trove and Francis behind her. Natasha landed ungracefully at her console and began furiously typing. Trove stood by the door, and Francis hovered next to him, gripping the frame. The ship had been rocked three times more in their sprint up here.

  “What’s going on?” Ruby demanded. “Camera feeds?”

  “Lost all of them,” Sia answered. “One through three lost in the blast, four and five appear to be malfunctioning—”

  “What?”

  “—and six is non-responsive.”

  “What do you mean four and five are malfunctioning? We replaced them just a few days ago.”

  Sia’s hands flew over her keyboard. A moment later the offending feeds popped up on the main display. Their images were garbled. An uneven vertical line drove across camera five’s display, filling one half in black.

  “What happened?”

  “We started encountering issues this morning. This afternoon they were worse, and now—”

  Another explosion rocked the ship. The images on screen juddered. Then camera five turned black, and a moment later disappeared entirely.

  Sia stared. “I didn’t do that.”

  “Damn it.” Ruby spun. “Natasha: change course. Starboard.”

  “I’m trying, but I’ve got no nav control,” Natasha said. She hammered at the keys, hard lines creasing her forehead. “Did we lose a fin?”

  “No,” came Amelie’s answer. “Schematics show all fins are—”

  No explosion, but something huge and heavy crashed up above, loud enough to be heard through steel. Another alarm shrieked, and from the door Francis saw text scroll even faster across Amelie’s screen. Something was flashing red.

  “Down a fin,” Amelie gasped. “The central one; it’s gone.”

  Ruby’s teeth gritted. “Stefan, I want you to fire all cannons on my mark.”

  “Miss Celeste, we don’t have a vector—”

  “On my mark!” she cried. “Mark!”

  Thunder rumbled the ship as six side cannons and the enormous central cann
on fired into the darkness. Ruby repeated the order, and the ship rumbled again as its bowels unloaded.

  “Mark,” she said.

  No sound. She waited an instant. “Mark!”

  “I’m trying,” said Stefan. “The system isn’t letting me—”

  Something rumbled, but quieter, and only on the port side of the ship.

  “Side cannons one and three just fired,” Stefan said, “but the rest aren’t responding.”

  “Try again.” Ruby turned. “Natasha, any luck re-routing us?”

  “I’m getting some drift, but not enough. I just don’t understand what’s—”

  The ship rocked again. But it was different this time: not one of the huge explosions that had shaken the Pantheon up to yet, but something smaller and more contained. It didn’t come from the ship’s side, either, but almost directly overhead.

  “What—” Ruby started, but Amelie was already shouting:

  “The porthole has been blown apart! We’re open to attack!”

  The cacophony frenzied. Ruby ordered the ship into lockdown, then shouted into her communicator before she’d even heard Sia’s response. “Mikhail! Forget loading the cannons—I need you guys kitted out and upstairs. Bastards have just blown our porthole open.”

  His response was brief: “Aye.”

  Ruby looked around. Fingers were frenetic on keyboards, screens cycled through alerts and schematics and diagnostics. Amber and red text flashed everywhere. The faces behind the workstations were strained—scared.

  By the door: Francis. He looked just as terrified as the others. Just as terrified as Ruby herself felt under this onslaught of fire and failing systems.

  But then, he’d looked scared before, too. When he led an assassin right up to her door.

  Fuming, Ruby crossed the floor to him. Trove stood to attention, but she ignored the man. Now her eyes sought Francis’s: black seeking out whites.

  “What’s happening?” Francis breathed.

  “You have to ask?” Ruby’s tone was acid. “We’re about to be boarded, Francis Paige. Again.”