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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  Shaking the image from his mind, Francis turned and headed back into the ship. He was hungry and seeing things. Because there was no way he had seen, just for an instant, a mass of ships against the glowing white face of the moon before they blinked out of sight.

  After all, they had been just the words of a madman. There was no Ghost Armada. Certainly not.

  RUBY CELESTE

  AND THE DIRE KRAKEN

  Captained by Morris Flute, the two-man trade ship Exceptional Luck has lived up to its name—at least until coming under attack in a sprawling floating rainforest. In his last moments, Flute desperately fights to drop a beacon—and then something streaks from the abyss and his world turns black.

  Meanwhile, on the Harbinger, Ruby Celeste’s crew are enjoying the height of summer. All except for Francis, who finds himself victimised by the awkward pursuit of Brie Channing, one of the ship’s night-shift technicians. It is her he thinks has woken him one morning; but instead he finds a drone affixed to his window, issuing a brief distress call.

  The drone leads to an abandoned weather station and its sole remaining inhabitant, Tesla Wong, who tells of the Exceptional Luck’s beacon. Allured by the promise of rare gemstones, Ruby decides to investigate. Now she and her crew press forward in search of the downed trade ship and its lost cargo. But the Exceptional Luck’s last details were scant, and neither Ruby nor her crew know they are flying straight into danger, destined for conflict with a terrifying beast: the dire kraken.

  Out of Luck

  (Prologue)

  1

  The Exceptional Luck: in its tenure, the two-man trade ship had survived battering storms, escaped attack a dozen times, and on two occasions suffered near-catastrophic hardware failures that had almost crashed the ship.

  So its name was apt. And maybe more so today, thought Captain Morris Flute.

  This morning they had detected the beacon of a felled ship. Weak, and barely on the fringes of the Exceptional Luck’s sensors.

  It might have been a quandary. Ought to have been, perhaps. Midway through a sixteen-day trek between ports, and carrying a hold of rare gemstones, the Exceptional Luck was to make haste.

  But in truth, considering had been simple. In fact, there was no thought at all: as soon as Jack pointed out the pulsing blip, Morris had instructed him to re-route. The journey would be extended, yes, but it could be worthwhile. Best case scenario, Morris and Jack would stumble upon a damaged ship and be able to assist in transporting its crew to safety. Worst case, everyone aboard would be dead.

  And that meant the ship’s contents would be free for the taking.

  Just after midday they’d spotted a far-off cluster of islands. As the hours slipped by, the size of the cluster became apparent. It was the biggest mass Morris had ever seen, and topped by a towering rainforest shrouded in mist.

  They had pondered skirting it, but directly through was faster. And besides: it was quickly apparent from their proximity that the beacon was somewhere in this murky blanket.

  No wonder, Morris thought as he looked out from the Exceptional Luck’s tiny deck. Over the past two hours the foliage had become thicker and thicker. Barely any sunlight penetrated from above, turning the surroundings into patchwork green and brown and yellow. Great vines hung between trees, macador birds perched across their length and peering down at the ship as it slowly wended through the maze.

  Morris watched a few moments longer. But the light was too frail, and he was forced to squint, so he returned to the ship’s confines.

  2

  If the Exceptional Luck’s topside deck was small, the command centre was smaller. There were only two workstations, each close enough to the other to touch. Space was a luxury on trade ships, and the Exceptional Luck was no different.

  Morris entered the tiny room and half-fell into his seat. Jack gave him nary a glance, encapsulated by the information trickling across his display.

  Morris liked Jack. Like himself, but younger—and less thick around the middle. Less thick all round, truth be told; Jack was wiry. Morris had been muscled, once. Still was, but every year his frame seemed to become just a tad softer.

  “How’s it looking up there?” Jack asked.

  “Dark.”

  “Feeds aren’t much better.”

  Settling comfortably, Morris brought up both cameras. Their images were dull and tinged with fuzz. “Switch to radar overlays; visibility will be totally shot before long.”

  “On it, sir.”

  The ship pulsed, and its camera feeds were replaced with real-time radar. Well, close to real-time: the pictures were twitchy, and lagged half a second. Still, better than their visuals; relying on those much longer, the Exceptional Luck might’ve crashed, too.

  For ten minutes they worked in quiet.

  “Getting close now,” Morris said.

  “Aye, sir. What do you reckon we’ll find?”

  “Something worth salvaging, whether it’s lives or goods.”

  “Yeah.” Jack was distracted momentarily by typing. “I hope it’s—”

  The world exploded. Sideways all of a sudden, Morris smashed into the wall.

  An alarm began to wail.

  Morris hefted up. His ribs creaked.

  “What was that?” Jack gasped, grimacing in a heap.

  Hand clutched to his side, Morris dumped back into his seat. There was nothing on screen: just the surrounding forest, jerking in view as Jack steadied the ship.

  “Cannon blast?”

  “No idea,” Morris answered. He scrutinised the radar. Nothing but trees. Trees and vines.

  Then Morris saw it, for just a split-second: an enormous streaking thing, unfurling from the darkness. A tentacle, Morris realised before it crashed down on the ship again.

  Morris was thrown against the ceiling. The heat in his torso intensified.

  “Did you see that thing?” Jack cried.

  “Yeah,” Morris grunted. Just speaking was an effort; even more to be heard over the shrieking alarm. He dragged himself back up, clutching his workstation with white-knuckled fingers to remain stable. “I saw it.”

  “What was it?” Jack’s voice was high and terrified. His eyes were wide, pinprick pupils moving in all directions.

  “Focus,” Morris said. “We need to get out of here.”

  “That thing—”

  “Focus. Okay?”

  Jack nodded despite his quake, and started typing.

  The ship’s judder evened. Feeds started to stabilise.

  Jack began, “Are we—”

  It was too good to be true. Because Morris saw it, again, and just had time to open his mouth to yell, before a vast tentacle coiled out of the abyss and slapped the ship into a downward spin.

  Red text streamed as systems failed. The alarm warbled and died. Lights flashed a flaming glow.

  “We’re going to die!”

  On screen, radar overlays lurched all around as the Exceptional Luck fell.

  “Drop a beacon!” Morris screamed. “Jack!”

  “Oh God!”

  “Drop the damn beacon!”

  Yet though Jack’s hands flew across the keys at his workstation, Morris would never know if the kid had been successful. Because a moment later, caught for just an instant on the twisting radar, one last devastating tentacle whipped.

  A lone word echoed through Morris Flute’s mind:

  Kraken.

  And then, like the ship’s, Morris Flute’s luck finally ran out.

  The Drone

  (Chapter One)

  1

  Tap-tap-tap.

  At first the noise incorporated itself into his dream. But when it came again—tap-tap-tap—his eyelids twitched and opened.

  Francis groaned. His bed covers were askew, half on and half off. The summer heat was nearing unbearable; already he was soaked in sweat, his black fringe plastered to his forehead.

  Served him right for sleeping in his pyjamas.

  But then again …
/>   Tap-tap-tap.

  Francis looked at the door. He didn’t want to open it. Surely it was her: she who was at fault he was drenched in sweat before the day had even started. She whose fault it was he had to wear pyjamas when he could have slept in underwear—just in case Brie Channing decided to wake him by walking straight in. Again. Having first, of course, broken his lock.

  At least she’s learnt to knock now.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow as best he could, and unsticking his pyjamas, he crossed the room to the door, pulled it open—

  The corridor was empty.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  Francis stuck his head out and looked up and down the Harbinger’s halls. But there was no one in sight.

  Perplexed, he stepped back inside and pressed the door closed.

  His eyes swept over his quarters. The wardrobe, filled with a mix of hand-me-down clothing and outfits he’d acquired during trips to port; the desk and chair, bolted down, drawers half-filled with trinkets and a leatherbound diary given to him by Natasha Brady, the Harbinger’s navigation leader; the round window, and the mechanical thing on the other side, beady eyes peering in—

  Francis stumbled back and yelled. His feet tangled and he bowled into the door.

  Beyond the pane, the mechanical thing simply looked in. It regarded him through robotic eyes, before gently knocking the window again: tap-tap-tap.

  Francis stared. What was that thing?

  Without breaking eyes from it, he fumbled with his communicator. It buzzed for five seconds, and then a muffled voice answered:

  “Francis? You woke me. What’s up?”

  “Ruby,” he breathed. “There’s something outside my window.”

  2

  Four heads peered over the Harbinger’s rail: Ruby Celeste, Trove Wellbeing, Natasha Brady, and Francis Paige, who was still in his pyjamas. How the others had dressed so fast was beyond him. Unless they slept in their clothes. Or didn’t sleep at all. That was the more likely option.

  “What is it?” Natasha asked.

  “Looks like a drone,” said Ruby.

  It hadn’t moved; whatever intelligence guided the drone was dim-witted. Perched on the Harbinger’s side, it had fixated upon Francis’s window and continued its intermittent tapping.

  “Shoot it,” Ruby said, nudging Trove. He reached into his jacket, but Ruby cried, “Trove! I was kidding.”

  “Merely reaching for a handkerchief, Miss Celeste,” he said.

  “Liar. You don’t keep them there.”

  Natasha said, “What’s a drone doing on the side of our ship?”

  Ruby shrugged. “Let’s get it up here and see if we can get any information out of it. Trove, would you mind fetching a tether?”

  “On my way, Miss Celeste.”

  As Trove returned to the ship, Ruby turned to Natasha. “Brie and Wren should both still be on shift. Be sure they’re ready to move sharp, should this turn out to be anything untoward.”

  Francis chimed, “Like what?”

  “Will do,” Natasha said. Already her communicator was up, and her fingers cycled through contacts as she stepped away to speak with the technicians.

  “What do you mean, untoward?” Francis repeated.

  “Simply a precaution,” Ruby answered. She gave him a brief smile before gripping the railing and looking down the Harbinger’s side once more.

  Angular, the drone was birdlike in the loosest sense. It looked large and clumsy, but its few movements were precise.

  “Here we are, Miss Celeste,” Trove said when he returned.

  “Ah, thank you. Natasha, are the technicians ready? Still working, I trust?”

  “Wren was,” Natasha said as she ambled back over. “Brie had—ah, she had stepped out.”

  “And is Wren prepared to move?”

  “At a moment’s notice.”

  “Excellent.” Ruby looped the end of the tether into a lasso and coiled the rope about her arm. “I’ll speak to Brie later. Ensure she doesn’t terminate her shift early again.”

  Francis nodded. He didn’t say his thanks, but his eyes and Ruby’s met, and he knew she had aimed that to him rather than as an offhand remark.

  “Well, let’s see what this thing is doing here,” the captain said. She positioned by the railing, took aim, and threw. “Bull’s-eye!” Beaming, she pulled the tether tight. “Excellent, eh, Trove?”

  “Quite so, Miss Celeste.”

  “Natasha, would you mind giving me a hand?”

  Francis said, “Want me to help?” A low pulse of self-consciousness went through him. He still remembered Ruby’s first words upon seeing him; that he weighed all of one-fifty soaking wet. Since getting on good terms with Ruby, he’d tried his best to prove her assessment—well, correct, but not inhibiting.

  “Sure,” said Ruby. “Natasha, give him some rope.”

  “And me?” Trove asked.

  “No need. With the three of us big strong people? I doubt you’d contribute much.” Ruby flashed a devilish grin. “Okay, Natasha, Francis: on three. One, two, three!”

  They pulled. For a second the drone didn’t give—then its grip was overpowered and it tumbled, coming over the railing with a heavy metallic thud.

  “My, my,” Ruby marvelled. She dropped the tether and hurried over, righting the drone onto its feet. The head—or at least the bulbous protrusion where its eye-like cameras peered out—swivelled with a mechanical buzz.

  They crowded around the drone. It surveyed them each in turn, and rearranged its feet to evaluate the small gathering. When it had returned to Ruby, it fell still.

  They waited.

  “What—” Francis began.

  “Greetings!” cried a synthesised voice. “Accept message?”

  Ruby’s eyebrows knitted. She cast the others a wary look. “What do you think?”

  Natasha shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

  Ruby glanced at Trove. He said, “It doesn’t seem outwardly harmful.”

  “Francis? Your thoughts?”

  “Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious.”

  That settled it. The captain nodded. Looking back down at the drone, she said, “Proceed.”

  Humming filled the air for a second, and then another voice came through the drone’s speakers, marred by crackling:

  “—this thing recording? Hello? Hello! If anyone receives this—I need help! My colleagues abandoned me and locked me in a utility closet.”

  The voice was male, and frightened; the words were quick and blurted.

  “I’ve only got access to this one drone—oh, God, I pray it finds someone. Please, if whoever finds this—come help, or send it if you can’t! I don’t think they’re coming back, and I don’t want to die—”

  He cut off.

  “Message ends,” the robotic voice said. “Repeat?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Ruby. “Where are you from?” When the drone didn’t reply, she asked, “Home base? Co-ordinates? Point of origin?”

  That last one did the trick, because the drone reeled off a series of numbers. Francis glanced at Natasha; she squinted skyward, mentally checking.

  “Near here,” she said to Ruby. “Two days out.”

  Ruby nodded. “I see.” She thought for a second. Then she said, “Okay, Trove. Shoot it.”

  He hesitated. “Miss Celeste?”

  “Oh, I’ll do it.” She reached into his jacket and withdrew his pistol. Checking it was loaded, she pointed it at the drone and fired. Sparks flew, there was a mechanical shriek, and then the drone’s servos died and it fell sideways in an inanimate heap.

  Francis stared, eyes wide. He’d jerked back a step, thrown up his arms. Lowering them slowly, he breathed, “What did you do that for?”

  Ruby shrugged, handing the pistol back. “Precaution.”

  3

  Breakfast this morning was cereal. Francis was glad, as he helped Samuel fill the serving station with the two choices—golden brown flakes, or muesli—and
prepared milk from evaporated powder: he didn’t think he could bear cooking, in this heat. At least it was a little cooler now he’d changed out of his sweat-slicked pyjamas and into a thin t-shirt and trousers.

  As soon as he’d finished prep, he removed his apron, washed his hands, and skirted to the other side of the station, ready to eat.

  “I’ll take the muesli,” he said.

  Sam dumped a bowl onto his tray and poured over milk. A little too heavy-handedly; it spilled over the edge and formed an icy white puddle on the tray. Both ignored the error; Francis was used to it, and he doubted Sam really cared.

  “Thanks.”

  Sam grunted. Typical.

  Francis sat by himself and chewed slowly.

  What a strange beginning to the morning.

  But then again, after the fiasco with Brie …

  He grimaced and glanced at the entryway as Natasha slipped in. Mikhail accompanied her. They were laughing. Mikhail and Francis exchanged a nod.

  So began the trickle. Vala and Stefan came next. Stefan was speaking at length, and when Vala met eyes with Francis she pulled a put-upon look. He grinned, and she smiled back.

  Herschel was next, and then—

  “Morning, Francis.”

  Brie Channing. She flitted through the doorway and over to his table without looking at the serving station. Blonde hair bounced on her shoulders, and she swiped it away.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Where were you earlier? I thought you helped Sam with ingredients. I waited.”

  Dimly aware that his ears were turning red, and Mikhail’s alight eyes were on him as he passed by with Natasha, Francis swallowed his bite of muesli and said, “Distracted by something on deck.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s not my place to … I think Ruby is calling a meeting later. I expect she’ll explain then.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Brie swiped at her hair again. It rarely stayed still: the waiflike girl was a bundle of nervous energy, sending straight blonde beams cascading over her small shoulders. “Can I sit here?” she asked, pointing at the opposite chair. Even her voice was nervous.