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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  “What relationship?” Francis scoffed.

  “Well, if there was one.”

  “Maybe that’s why you don’t ask. Because there’s nothing to ask after.”

  Natasha’s eyes glittered. “Touché. Anyway,” she went on more seriously, “I haven’t been spending all my time with him. Like I said, I’ve been in the library a lot lately.”

  “Oh yeah, Mikhail said the other day. Found something interesting?”

  “Researching krakens,” Natasha said. Her brow furrowed. “I know what those stills showed, and what Ruby saw, but … It just doesn’t make sense. They’re mythical—and even if they’re not, the stories don’t put them anywhere near as big as the one that attacked us. It’s just … it’s crazy.”

  “About as crazy as a trip to search for a ghost armada?”

  Natasha laughed. “Perhaps.”

  “Our captain and myth-chasing, eh?” Francis said. He shook his head. Suddenly he felt a little better. Patting himself on the knees, he let out a deep breath. “Okay. I’m ready to go again.”

  “Fantastic. Round three! Third time lucky?”

  “I hope so,” said Francis.

  God, how he hoped so.

  10

  Third time was not lucky.

  Dejected and tired, Francis finally called things off at six p.m. Natasha tried to convince him to keep it up, but he was done. So they trudged back to the Harbinger together in defeated quiet.

  “We’ll try somewhere else,” Natasha said when they clambered back aboard the ship. “Next port or city, we’ll try again. We’ll find a way.”

  “Thanks,” Francis mumbled.

  “Come on.” Natasha squeezed his shoulder. “Be positive.”

  “About what?”

  She considered. “Well, we’re about halfway through dinner. Sam might have cooked something nice.”

  Francis might have looked incredulous if he wasn’t so tired. “Do you think that’s likely?”

  “Well, no,” Natasha confessed. “But the universe has a way of evening out the shit, so maybe we’ll have a three-course dinner prepared. With oskask—and ice cream.”

  “I’d prefer fudge.”

  “Well, that then. Let’s go see.”

  The universe didn’t have a way of evening out the shit, either. When they arrived in the brimming cafeteria, the serving station held a near-empty pot of beans, a dry mound of mashed potatoes, some diced vegetables, and two solitary strips of puceal.

  “Worth a look,” Natasha said apologetically.

  “Eh.”

  They took up trays and were served.

  A familiar voice: “Francis! Oh—Francis!”

  Through gritted teeth, he muttered to Natasha, “Please tell me that’s anyone other than Brie. Ben, back from the dead. Rhod fucking Stein. Just … not her. Please not her.”

  “I think it’s her.” Natasha glanced back. “It’s her. And she’s saved you a seat, by the looks.”

  “Oh …” Francis huffed. “Could this day get any worse?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “A multitude of ways.”

  “Like what?”

  Natasha shrugged. “Shit yourself in front of everyone?”

  Francis stared. His mouth flapped. “Did … what … Did you just say that?”

  “I spend a lot of time with Mikhail. He might act above Reuben and Glim, but he’s just as bad.” Natasha considered her plate of food. “Speaking of,” she said, “I’d better go eat with him. Haven’t seen him much today. You going to be okay with Brie?”

  “No. But I don’t have much choice in the matter, so I’ll have to be.”

  Natasha smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

  They left the serving station together. Brie had picked out the usual table, and sat alone with an empty plate. As soon as she locked eyes with Francis, she sat up a little straighter and waved him over. Begrudgingly, Francis sat opposite, wishing he could be a third wheel to Natasha and Mikhail.

  “Hi, Francis,” Brie said breathily as Francis dropped into his seat. “What—how was today?”

  “Fine.”

  Ask her how her day was.

  Another voice, louder and meaner: Fuck off.

  Brie: “What were you doing?”

  “Asking people if they knew any way I might be able to get home.”

  “Ooh. Did you find anyone?”

  Would I be back here and eating with you if I did?

  “No. No one.”

  “Oh.”

  Brie was quiet. Francis was glad. He focused on his plate.

  It was strange: everyone always said Sam’s cooking was bad. And it definitely wasn’t perfect, Francis could admit. But he’d never thought anything Sam produced tasted especially bland. Luxury food it was not, and everything did taste a little weak, but Francis had never really minded.

  But today, right now, it really did seem tasteless. He was eating it simply for something to do—something that didn’t involve speaking to Brie, or anyone. Something to occupy an automated part of his brain, reducing his focus on the awful, awful day.

  “You know,” Brie said slowly. Her cheeks were pink. “I’m—um—glad. That no one—”

  Francis dropped his fork. Tomato sauce sprayed, landing on the table in orange flecks. A spatter hit his shirt.

  “What?” he whispered.

  “That no one had a way to … to get back. Because, this way—”

  Francis’s heart had stopped. All noise had ceased. All he saw and heard was Brie, and those words coming from her mouth.

  Glad. She was glad he was stuck up here.

  “Because this way, what?” Francis demanded. Suddenly he was up on his feet, but he didn’t remember rising. “This way you’ll get to continue stalking me, because you think somehow that’ll lead to something between us? You’ll get to keep hanging around outside my door? You’ll never have to leave my side?”

  Brie stammered, “I—”

  But there was no stopping him. Everything had mounted, and now it was all exploding out. Every moment of irritation, every little way she’d angered him with her relentless, awkward pursuit—and now this. Those words. That she was glad he was stuck with no way home.

  “I don’t like you, Brie!” Francis shouted. “I’ve never liked you! The only reason I’ve been spending time with you these past couple of days is because I felt bad for ignoring you the other morning! Fucking hell, I spent two solid days with you—days I could have spent asking if anyone in this god-forsaken city knew of some way I might get to go home! What if I missed my chance? What if I’m stuck up here because you won’t fuck off?”

  Brie stared. Her face was crimson. Her bottom lip quivered. Her eyes were glossy.

  She’s crying. Stop it.

  But Francis couldn’t. He’d come too far. Now the flow had started, there was no stymieing it.

  “And you’re glad! Glad I’m stuck up here, glad I lost all that time, because it means you get to keep pestering. Well guess what? I don’t like you, Brie Channing. Now please, just leave me the fuck alone!”

  For one long, horrible second, Brie was frozen. Then she slapped a hand across her mouth, was up and bolting from the room. She stumbled into a chair, and someone—Wren, maybe—reached for her. But she was gone, out and around the corner, great racking sobs echoing behind her footsteps.

  Francis stared. The whole room was silent. All eyes, on him.

  They’d all seen. All heard.

  He breathed, deep and heavy. His heart thrummed in his chest.

  Silence. Watching faces.

  His mouth worked, trying to say something. Some excuse he could give. There was none.

  The seconds drew long … and then Francis fled.

  11

  “Hey! Hey, Francis! Hey!”

  He spun. Coming from behind at a run was Evans.

  “What do you want?” Francis demanded.

  Evans hurtled to a stop. “What was that?”

  “I�
�I don’t—look, just leave me alone!”

  “Francis—”

  “Leave me alone!”

  A wake of silence.

  Concerned; that was how Evans looked. But Francis couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take anything.

  “Just … just fuck off, okay?” he mumbled.

  “Come on …” Evans reached for his shoulder.

  Francis jerked back. “I said to go away! God … God, why did you have to be such a dick?”

  “What?”

  “Making fun all the time! Always taking the piss, when you knew I didn’t like it!”

  “Hey, if you’re trying to blame this on me—”

  “I’m not!”

  Francis breathed hard. After everything, his body was defeated. Just arguing was exhausting.

  “Francis, I …”

  “I want you to leave me alone,” Francis said. His words were slow and careful, every letter enunciated. “You. All of you. You tell that, to the rest of them. I want to be left alone. Okay?” When Evans didn’t answer, he prompted louder, “Okay?”

  A tiny nod.

  “Good.” Francis set off up the corridor again. “Don’t follow me.”

  “Francis—”

  “Don’t follow me!”

  He ran. Flat out, back to his room. He stuffed the key into the lock, prying it open, and locked it just as fast from the inside. There would be a knock, he was sure; Reuben would have followed, or perhaps Ruby or Natasha …

  None came.

  Sunk against the wooden door, Francis held his head in his hands.

  You shouldn’t have done that. He’s your friend, and he was looking out for you. God damn it, you always do this to people trying to look out for you!

  A smaller voice answered: I know.

  And Brie! You destroyed her, right there in front of everyone! You’re a bastard, Francis. A stupid, hurtful fucking bastard.

  He hung his head. A solitary tear leaked down the corner of one eye, and he bit off his sob.

  “I know,” he whispered to the empty room. “I know.”

  Fallout

  (Chapter Nine)

  1

  No knock to wake Francis, the next morning. Instead he was roused, feeling as though he’d never slept, by the sound of his alarm.

  The very moment his eyes opened, he was back in the cafeteria, shouting at Brie, cutting her down again. Calling her a stalker. Telling her that he didn’t like her. Swearing.

  He closed his eyes.

  It took a long time to drag himself out of bed. His pyjamas were changed for clothes, and he combed his hair. Maybe that was pointless, because he didn’t so much as glance at the mirror to check the quality of his job. Just a dozen slow raking movements before discarding the comb. Not even back in the drawer it had come from; it dropped to the desk with a plastic clatter.

  Up the corridor at a trudge, then to the canteen. Sam was behind the serving station, sifting through a sack of potatoes. At Francis’s footsteps, he looked up and made a noise Francis took to mean, “Where were you? I’ve done it myself—again.”

  “Sorry,” Francis mumbled. “Need some help?”

  He did his best to throw himself into dicing potatoes, and tried to look forward to the day’s breakfast: a medley of vegetables alongside scrambled eggs and the usual staple of toast. But focussing was a bust, and after ten minutes Sam shooed him away to re-chop Francis’s pile of too-big vegetables.

  Francis sat morosely at his usual table. Twenty minutes until breakfast started proper. Less than half an hour until the room filled with the people that had seen his explosive outburst last night. What would they say? What would they do? Should he act like everything was normal? Should he apologise to each and every one of them in turn for acting so cruelly, as if in slighting Brie—hah, slighting? You did more than that—he had done so to everyone else. Or should he simply be quiet, try to fade into the background again? Perhaps he could revert to his early days aboard the Pantheon; silent and introverted, neither talking with the crew nor spending any time with them.

  Don’t be so stupid. You have to face the music sometime.

  I know. That’s exactly what I’m scared of.

  Pleasant smells wafted as Sam began to lightly fry potato, onion and mushrooms and sparse sprinklings of herbs. If he wasn’t so nervous, Francis’s mouth might start to water.

  As the noises and scents intensified from the ovens, Francis was torn. Half of him wanted to ignore the clock on his communicator; the other half was intent on watching it. Time had shifted into an odd paradigm, where it both dragged and marched far too fast. Before long only ten minutes remained; then eight; then five, as Sam filled the serving station with the day’s selection.

  At three to go, the station was full. Sam grunted and waved Francis forward; he hesitated, but came nonetheless.

  With just over a minute until breakfast truly began, Francis returned to his table and sat heavily. Fear swallowed his stomach. His mouth was dry. He should have been hungry after last night’s premature exit, but his appetite had fled. And all the while, his ears pricked for the telltale sound of footsteps coming up the corridor.

  A meagre forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth, Francis froze. Someone was coming.

  Sweat burst onto his forehead.

  Who would it be? Natasha, maybe? Mikhail? Or it could be Ruby—or Vala. If it was Vala … He could just picture her look of disappointment now. Would she speak? Or would she ignore him? Maybe Francis wouldn’t have to relegate himself to the background after all; the rest of the Harbinger’s crew would do it for him.

  What if Brie was coming?

  God, that thought was worse than all the rest. Fifteen angry faces, Francis thought he could manage. It would be tough, yes, but he’d succeed if things came to that. But to see Brie again, after the way he’d hurt her. The memory of her lip quivering floated in his mind’s eye. Her face distraught, marred by tears. The way she’d stumbled into a chair, and the hand that reached for her, ignored …

  Closer, closer came the footfalls. He wished he hadn’t sat this way now, in perfect view of the open entryway. And why did he have to help Sam? Why, of all the tasks on this ship, was that Francis’s job? He was almost always here first. Already eating when the first diners entered. And it would be him their eyes alighted to.

  A body rounded the corner: Herschel. His eyes slipped to Francis. After a hesitation, he gave an uncertain nod. Francis returned it mechanically. Then Herschel moved to the serving station, and Francis felt his insides uncoil very, very slightly.

  Herschel was still being served when Francis heard more footsteps. Again, his heart skipped. He listened carefully. Two people now, he was sure of it. Ruby and Trove? Natasha and Mikhail? Evans and Peters?

  Francis’s stomach tensed. He didn’t much fancy seeing Reuben, either.

  It could be Vala and Stefan.

  That made Francis lock up even more. On second thought, maybe he would take Evans and Peters.

  It was—Natasha and Mikhail. Natasha had been looking at Mikhail with a half-smile. But when she stepped in, her eyes—both of their eyes—fell onto Francis. Francis didn’t know whether to wave, or try to rearrange every atom in his body so he could pool through the floor and away.

  Natasha patted Mikhail just below the crook of his elbow. As he went to the serving station, she moved to Francis and sat down in the chair opposite.

  “Are you okay?”

  He opened his mouth. Words were elusive, and he just stared, fork poised stupidly in one hand.

  “Francis?”

  “I’m—I didn’t … I shouldn’t …”

  Natasha sighed. “No, you shouldn’t. Not like that. But …” She inhaled deeply. “These things happen. Now we just need to focus on fixing it.”

  “Fix it?” Francis frowned. “How?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ll talk about it.”

  “Me and you?”

  “And whoever else you might want to bring along.”
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  Francis nodded. “Okay. When?”

  “Tonight,” Natasha said. “I’ve got work today. We can go to the library, or the rec room. Or somewhere else, just so long as it’s quiet and secluded.”

  “Okay.” Francis’s mouth worked. “Thanks.”

  Mikhail wended his way over holding two trays. He stopped off by the table.

  “Morning,” he said carefully to Francis. Francis inclined his head in a tiny nod. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not so hot.”

  “Hah. You made off pretty quick last night. You okay?”

  “He’s fine,” Natasha said. “We’re going to meet up tonight to talk about things.”

  “You can come too,” Francis said to Mikhail. “If you want.”

  “’Course I can.” Mikhail looked to the remaining two empty seats. “You want some company?”

  Francis shook his head. “That’s okay.” Not that he meant it. Having these two sit with him was like some kind of protective ward. It stopped others from coming over; others who might be less peaceable. But they were doing enough by offering their assistance. Francis wouldn’t monopolise them any more than that. “You guys go enjoy your breakfast.”

  “All right.” Mikhail handed Natasha’s tray over as she rose, and patted Francis on the shoulder. “Chin up, buddy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “See you later,” Natasha said as she passed.

  With the two gone, Francis was once again hyper-aware of his surroundings. Darrel had entered while Natasha was talking, and now stood at the serving station while Sam deposited an uneven heap of scrambled eggs on his plate. Would the doctor say anything? Francis hoped not. It didn’t seem likely, at the very least.

  He didn’t have time to ponder very long, because Amelie rounded the corner. Her eyes found Francis.

  She marched straight over.

  “I just want you to know,” she said, “that I think what you did last night to Brie was awful.”

  Francis dropped his fork. “Is she okay?” he asked.

  “What do you think?” Amelie said acidly. “Would you be okay?”

  “No.”

  “She’s only seventeen, Francis. What kind of prick—” Amelie enunciated this with a jab of her finger to Francis’s chest “—does that to a seventeen-year-old?”