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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  She was cornered.

  8

  “We can’t just leave her by herself!”

  That was Natasha.

  The control room was torn. There were two options: go after Ruby—or stay away.

  “You heard the man on the radio,” Stefan countered. “If she doesn’t go up alone, Mikhail and the others will die!”

  “She was supposed to go unarmed and didn’t do that,” said Natasha. “How do we know they’re not dead already?”

  “Because we haven’t heard gunshots.”

  “Who says they’ve only got guns?”

  “Who else besides our captain carries a sword?”

  “That man who boarded us last week had a dagger!” Natasha looked around the room at the faces staring back at her. All scared, all with no idea what to do. “Come on, we can’t just leave her! She’s outnumbered!”

  “She’s smart,” Trove said. “And Stefan is right: you heard the man on the radio. If anyone else goes up there, four innocent men will die.”

  “Our captain will die! Isn’t anyone going to think about that?”

  Quiet. No one wanted to speak.

  Then at last, one voice made itself heard: Francis.

  “She’s right,” he said. “Mikhail said there were three men, and one got taken out. So that leaves two. Ruby—she’s got a sword. If we could go up there with a gun, we could … could tip the odds in her favour. Our favour.” His eyes roved from person to person. “Evans already got shot. We could stop it from happening to anyone else.”

  Again, silence. Natasha waited. “Well?” she pleaded.

  A crack rung out on the level above. Another followed, then a third.

  And then silence.

  “That’s it,” Natasha said. She stormed to Trove, who stood blocking the door. “You can complain all you want, but you’re not going to stop me leaving.”

  He might have fought, but the gunshots had turned his skin another shade of white. Instead he simply nodded, and stepped sideways so Natasha could pass.

  She didn’t move. “I want your gun.”

  She reached into his jacket and withdrew it. Somewhat oversized, it looked too big in her hands; she was daintier than Trove, even if she did match his height inch for inch. Natasha looked the weapon over, checked it was loaded, and then gave one final glance at the faces in the room.

  “Stay safe.”

  Then she, too, was out the door.

  Halfway up the hallway, a voice called her name. She turned, keeping the pistol aimed at the floor.

  Francis bounded up behind her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “What does it look like? I’m coming with you.”

  Natasha gaped. “You’re not armed.”

  “I know,” Francis said with a grimace. “But maybe I can be a distraction. Now come on.”

  He overtook, pushing up the corridor, and Natasha had no choice but to follow.

  9

  Here Ruby was, trapped: no weapon, no cover, and the man across from her had a clear shot.

  So this is it, she thought. This is how I’m going to die.

  She only prayed that he bled out before turning on the rest of the crew. Her life to save the others. It was an even trade, she thought.

  Footsteps clattered up the corridor. More than one pair. What was going on? Had more men boarded the ship before Mikhail and the others arrived to head them off? Was the Pantheon overrun?

  “Hey!”

  That was a man’s voice—a voice Ruby recognised. She dared look back. There, bursting around the corner, was Francis, arms above his head in a manic wave.

  “Hey! I’m Francis Paige, the ‘stolen property’! It’s me you’re looking for!”

  Ruby gaped. “Francis?”

  The next two seconds were the longest of her life.

  She swivelled back to the bleeding man. Shifting his contorted features to Francis, he swung the gun to track Paige’s footsteps hurtling up the corridor.

  Another voice shouted, “Now!”

  Francis dived. Behind him, squatted at the end of the hallway, a great pistol in her hands—Trove’s pistol, Ruby was sure of it—was Natasha, her face set.

  The navigation leader pulled the trigger.

  At what seemed like the same instant, but couldn’t have been, surely not, the bleeding man squeezed his own.

  Searing, white hot pain exploded in Ruby’s side. The impact tossed her backward, and she hit the wall lopsided before crashing into a heap.

  10

  Francis picked himself up from the floor. He’d hit his head—that was twice in less than twenty minutes now—and his vision spun. His brain felt completely shaken, because as he struggled to stand he couldn’t be sure if there had been one gunshot or two. It sounded like one, but some part of him was sure that wasn’t right.

  Natasha flew up the corridor. She passed Francis, and he stumbled to avoid her. Something wet underfoot almost took his legs out from under him, but he pressed a steadying hand to the wall. He looked down to see what the slick was.

  Blood. Lots of it. It practically coated the corridor. How hadn’t he seen it before? Oh, yes, that was it: he had sprinted toward an armed man to help save a woman who, moments ago, had accused Francis of luring these attackers here.

  “Francis! Francis, I need you!”

  Blinking hard, he looked to where Natasha crouched by Ruby’s still form.

  He rushed forward, stepping over Ruby’s bloodied sword, and stooped by the captain. Her clothes were red, soaked; her face stained, as if her hair had liquefied and was running down it in crimson rivulets. This couldn’t all be her blood, could it? Otherwise how had she been standing?

  No, it wasn’t. Because up ahead, the bleeding man—dead man, now, half of his face missing—had lost his own fair share. Behind him, a cluster of unconscious bodies. One of those was bleeding, too. And what was that husk of a thing Francis had run by just now? That meaty sack of gore he’d seen but not taken in, not until now, when he was sat just inches from it.

  He closed his eyes, breathed deep. Iron hung in the air, he was sure of it. Cloying, sickening, it worked into the back of his throat.

  “Francis, don’t grey out on me!”

  Natasha’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. Focussing hard, Francis pushed his way out of the fog. His eyes flickered open.

  Relief crossed Natasha’s face for just a second. “Good, you’re okay. I need you to help me, all right? Ruby—she’s bleeding. We need to get her to Darrel. Evans, too.”

  Francis nodded. His eyes drifted down to Ruby. A hole was ripped in the side of her jacket. The shirt beneath had been white, but now it was stained red. He whimpered and looked away.

  “I don’t like blood,” he said.

  “I know you don’t,” Natasha answered. “And you’re doing great, really great. I’m going to handle this, but I need you to radio the others—Darrel, then Trove. With my communicator, okay?” She yanked it off and thrust it at him; then she grabbed Ruby’s jacket and ripped, widening the maw. “I need to try to stop the bleeding, so I can’t. Can you do that?”

  His voice wavered. “I don’t know how it works.”

  “It’s okay, just listen to me and I’ll tell you.” Panic rose even higher in Natasha’s voice, and Francis averted his eyes as Ruby’s stomach came into view. Too late: there was a puncture right at the edge, where her body curved away.

  “Will she—”

  “Francis! I need you to concentrate!”

  Francis breathed deep. Looked at Natasha’s face. Had to: if he looked anywhere else he was sure he would pass out. “Okay. Tell me what to do.”

  “Press the star button to switch on the display.”

  Francis pressed it. His fingers quivered, almost missed, but he managed. “Okay.”

  “There’s a little menu. Use the arrows to cycle through to contacts.” She waited a second. “Done that?”

  “Y-yeah.”

  “Okay. Almo
st there. It’s simple, see? Now use the arrows again to cycle through to Darrel. Darrel Stitt. Only one under D. Found him?”

  “Got him.”

  “Okay, now press the green button twice. You lift it and speak into it, all right?”

  “Yeah. I—I’ve seen people do it.”

  For two seconds there was only silence—no, not silence, but Natasha as she panted and tore the sleeve from her own jacket and pressed it to Ruby’s wound. Then a click, and a voice.

  “Natasha?”

  “Err, no,” said Francis shakily. “It’s Francis—Francis Paige. Um—you’re the doctor here, right?”

  “Miss Celeste is injured up here!” Natasha shouted. “Took a bullet to the abdomen! I need you to be prepared to fix her!”

  “I—okay!” Darrel called back. “But the office is in lockdown—I’m stuck inside. I can’t do anything until it’s lifted.”

  “That’s okay; just prepare a bed!”

  “Or two,” Francis added. “Evans got shot as well.”

  Darrel: “Oh God … Is Miss Celeste’s condition serious?”

  Suddenly, Ruby’s body spasmed. She coughed. Natasha half-fell backward, and Francis stared in terror. Were these death throes?

  But the captain’s eyes flickered open and her coughs petered out. Her eyes moved between Francis and Natasha and back again, before falling to the communicator Francis held. She extended a limp hand and took it from him.

  “I’ll live,” she rasped. “Don’t think it—hit anything—” Her eyes swum back up to Natasha. Normally blue, they’d taken on a watery, dull colour. Behind all the spatters of claret, her face was ghost-like. “These guys rescued me.” A weary glance to Francis. Her hand was dropping as her strength faded out. “I’ll call Sia; get lockdown lifted. See you in five, Darrel.”

  “Okay.”

  Natasha reached for the communicator. “I’ll do that.”

  “No. Just—stop me bleeding.”

  No argument. Natasha nodded and pressed hard on Ruby’s abdomen again. Ruby grimaced and drew a sharp intake of breath. She said, “Francis—I need you to—do the buttons.”

  He reached out. “Okay.” Called.

  Trove answered. “Miss Brady?”

  “It’s Ruby.”

  “Miss Celeste! Are you—you sound—”

  “Ssh,” Ruby said. Her hand drooped; Francis held it steady. “End the lockdown. Then come up—help bring me to—Darrel—”

  She fell silent and her eyes closed.

  Natasha gasped. “Is she …”

  Francis pressed his fingers into her neck, just below her jawline. It was sticky with blood, but he blocked it out.

  “She’s alive,” he answered. “There’s a pulse. Must have just passed out.” He lifted the communicator and held it by his mouth. “Trove, it’s Francis. You heard her. Get the ship out of lockdown, then get whoever you can to help. Ruby needs to get to Darrel. She’s bleeding. I—I don’t know how long …”

  “Okay,” said Trove. “I’m on it.”

  Francis looked at Natasha. Still she pressed on the wound. Though the material of her jacket was black, it seemed somehow blacker against Ruby’s stomach—soaking with her blood.

  “Anyone else I should call?”

  “No. That’s it.”

  The communicator fell from Francis’s hands with a dull thud. Both ignored it.

  “Will she …”

  Natasha: “Yes.” Her voice was firm. “Yes, she’ll live. She damn well has to.”

  11

  Ruby would live, it turned out. The bullet had punctured her midsection, but only the very side; it had torn some muscle, but hit nothing life-threatening. Still, it would put her out of action for some time as she recovered from the ordeal.

  Evans would live too. In fact, he was up and at it again by lunch the following day. Hobbling around on a crutch, he did his best to laugh and joke—but it was tough. It was clear from his face he was just as strained as the rest of them.

  And no wonder. The Pantheon was a wreck. An enormous hole ripped in the top, the outer hull almost destroyed, no working cameras, a failing control centre, one fin missing, minimal navigational control, a Volum that clearly had something wrong, rust eating its way through the lower portion of the ship, and no captain. They were in dire straits, and everyone knew it.

  Cacophonous Harmonics was a day and a half away. Natasha had managed to push the ship onto the correct course—barely—so they would stop there. It was just a case of managing to sustain this hobbling lurch.

  The Explosive Rage of Rhod Stein

  (Chapter Fifteen)

  1

  After a full night without sleep, Rhod should have been tired. But he wasn’t. Instead he was operating on a mix of coffee and the antsy feeling he’d harboured in his stomach since Imelda’s call yesterday.

  The attack had been last night; standard. Imelda would know how it had gone down already, but maybe she was doing this to toy with him. Oh, how that woman loved to toy with him. Twice Rhod had thought about calling her. But he’d decided to wait. There was no badgering Imelda; she would just be infuriating and withhold information until he was willing to be ‘patient’. Willing to be strung along, more like. Still: he waited.

  It was approaching noon now, and he downed the morning’s fourth mug of coffee. Bitter, horrid stuff, but it helped. It saw him through the night after his anticipation alone wasn’t enough; now it would see him through until Imelda’s call finally came.

  Waiting was a dull game. Worse than that, it bred concerns, worries; let the mind go off with itself and spin stories of how things might have gone wrong.

  But it couldn’t have. This time Imelda had sent in all of her men—or those remaining, at least. One man could fail, but a trio? They would surely have cornered Celeste, hacked her screaming head from her shoulders. A head that would soon be mounted like a trophy upon the wall of Rhod’s new office, when The Pharmacologist’s Eden was rebuilt and open once more. Maybe he would make it even more fantastic, more amazing, just to spite her. Her lifeless eyes could look down upon it for eternity, staring at what she’d tried to destroy but Rhod had reconstructed, bigger, better than before.

  The phone rang. Rhod snatched it up even before the first trill silenced. His heart, already speeding from the vast amounts of caffeine, raced faster. Adrenaline surged, turning his fingertips hot.

  “Yes?”

  “Rhod.”

  “Did you get her?”

  There was an infuriating moment of quiet; toying with him again, stirring him up so she could get a rise out of him—and then Imelda’s voice came back. “No. No, we didn’t. They didn’t.”

  Heat was replaced by ice in Rhod’s veins. His vision tunnelled. They’d failed? Was this a joke? Some cruel jape?

  No. It wasn’t. He could tell by Imelda’s voice. For the first time she sounded flat—defeated. There was no smugness, no smarminess to her words, none of that silkiness Rhod hated so much. Now she just sounded old.

  “What?” he whispered.

  “They opened fire on her ship. I told them not to, but Leon cut me off. I didn’t hear from them after that. Haven’t heard from them since.”

  “Could they be … could Celeste have captured them?”

  “No,” was Imelda’s glum answer. “Well. Could have. But I don’t think so, do you?”

  Rhod’s mind whirled. Twice now Imelda had failed. Twice the Pantheon had been boarded, and twice the boarders had been bested by that damn crimson-haired woman. A woman who had shattered the empire he’d built and was now staving off everything Rhod threw at her while his money pissed out of his pockets.

  “God damn it!” he exploded. “Damn you! Why can’t you do a simple fucking job?”

  “We tried. She must be experienced, or—”

  “It was a SIMPLE TASK! BOARD HER SHIP, BRING ME BACK HER HEAD AND TORCH THE REST! I’ve fed you money for the past week and a half while your men track her down, and for what? Nothing but wasted time!�
��

  “Rhod—”

  “Rhod nothing! This is the last time I will EVER work with you, you useless, good-for-nothing old WITCH!”

  With a roar, he slammed the phone down into its cradle, tore it from the wall, and smashed it to pieces.

  He shuddered with racking, angered breaths.

  Ruby Celeste was still out there.

  Well, maybe Rhod could do what Imelda’s goons hadn’t been able to. And he’d be able to enjoy it more, too. All it took was finding the woman—and Imelda had already told him where she was: heading toward a little SkyPort called Cacophonous Harmonics.

  2

  Rhod flew from the makeshift office in a rage. All around, The Pharmacologist’s Eden was heaving. At long last, the first new buildings were starting to take shape.

  It no longer seemed very important.

  He stormed across the open plaza, heading straight for the first stairway to the parking bay.

  Behind him, someone called, “Mr Stein?” When Rhod didn’t turn, he called louder, “Mr Stein?”

  Rhod spun. “What?”

  It was Lance; that damned know-nothing who’d kept the Eden closed all this time. Lance looked pleased, for some reason: probably the thrill of seeing Rhod in a raging mood. Well, Rhod would show him. He thundered toward the man.

  “I just wanted to give you an update,” Lance started.

  He didn’t get to finish. As Rhod brought the gap between them to little more than a metre, he drew his pistol from his belt, levelled it and fired. There was a spray of crimson, and Lance hit the floor.

  In the wake of the crack, silence reigned. Heads turned, horrified. To one side gaped Lars and Charlotte. Damn couples.

  Rhod gave his watchers little more than a glance. “Someone clean this up!” he ordered. Then he turned tail and continued his march to the parking bay, and with it, his ship.

  3

  Rhod’s ship was custom-built for one, yet so large it looked as if it could house at least a dozen. And no wonder: he demanded a kick out of it, so four Volum occupied it in a cluster toward the rear, along with another four supercharged batteries. It was a hulking behemoth of machine; inside was just one room and one corridor, plus a minute storage bay.