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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  Below, racing up: the Harbinger, entwined.

  The positioning was perfect.

  “Get ready!” Francis shouted. His words were lost to the whipping air.

  “I’m scared!”

  “You can do this!”

  The Harbinger grew larger, closer.

  “On three! One!”

  Closer—

  “Two!”

  Closer—

  “Three!”

  Gripping Brie’s hand as tight as he could, Francis did the unthinkable for the second time that day. The Harbinger’s solid hull racing up to meet him, the wind a banshee wail in his ears, his heart a frenzied drumbeat in his chest—

  He leapt.

  9

  The kraken sailed down from the sky. Ruby braced—

  There was a shriek of metal, the feeling of something elastic snapping—and then the Harbinger bucked upward, freed, spinning into the skies.

  “We’re out!” someone shouted.

  But Ruby ignored the cry. Already she was sprinting through the corridor.

  Let Francis—

  Up stairs—

  Please, if there is a God—

  Hurtling for the door onto the topside deck—

  And Brie, please, Brie—

  She thrust the door open and exploded out into sunlight.

  “Francis!”

  She sprinted for his prone form. Brie was crouched a couple of metres off, tears streaming her face. One hand was wrapped about her leg. The other stretched out for Francis, desperately groping.

  “Miss Celeste!” she cried. “He—we—”

  Ruby dropped to his side. She rolled him onto his back, fingers already pressing to his neck for a pulse.

  “He’s alive,” she breathed. “Thank goodness, he’s alive.”

  Others were behind, coming through the door. People calling names. Ruby wasn’t sure who was among them.

  Blood had exploded over Francis’s face. His nose was a pulverised mess; worse than Ruby’s when it had been broken. Darrel could fix it; could fix anything Francis went back with, Ruby was sure—he had to—

  Natasha dropped down beside Ruby. Next to her came Mikhail.

  “Did he jump?” Mikhail asked.

  “Yes. The damned stupid—”

  Natasha reached for him. Ruby swatted her hands away. Catching herself, she said, “Miss Brady, please—see to Brie. Mikhail, if you could—could call Darrel.”

  “Miss Celeste?” came Trove’s voice.

  “Not now.”

  “Miss Celeste, I really think you should see this.”

  She opened her mouth to bark at him, but stopped. A shrill whine filled the air. Alarmed, she pushed to her feet and hurried to the edge of the Harbinger, where Trove stood looking out.

  Far below, where the kraken had slammed into its cocoon, flame billowed. Flame that spread like ink in water through the construct’s pipes, turning fluid from blue and orange and green to hellish red.

  Metal contorted. The scream grew louder, higher-pitched.

  “Is it—”

  “It’s going to blow!” Ruby shouted. “Everyone, brace—”

  She had time to say no more. Like a nuclear bomb detonating, the cocoon exploded in one uproarious thunderclap, turning the world white.

  10

  It was raining.

  No, not raining: hailing.

  But it couldn’t be; not when a moment ago the skies had been clear and blue.

  Opening her eyes slowly, Ruby removed her arms from above her head.

  Metal fell from the sky, scattering across the deck.

  “He’s stirring!” Mikhail called.

  Ruby hurried to his side. Peppered by the cocoon’s fragments, Francis’s face twitched. He spluttered, spraying blood, and his eyes flickered open.

  “Francis!” Ruby gripped his shoulders. She pulled him up—but at his groan, she lowered him again, her relief disappearing, replaced with a fraught expression. “Are you okay?”

  “My—my ribs,” he gasped. “Think I broke them in the fall.” He blinked, eyes swimming, then muttered, “Why is it raining?”

  Ruby almost laughed. Holding Francis as loosely as she could, she bowed over him in a hug.

  “I thought—” she started, but couldn’t bring herself to finish. Her eyes were hot. “I was so scared.”

  “Why?” he asked. “Don’t you know by now—I always save the day.”

  “And me!” Brie cried indignantly.

  Francis grinned, a delirious smile. “Especially you,” he said. Prying himself loose from beneath Ruby’s mass of curls, he looked at Channing with admiration. “You did good.”

  “Miss Celeste,” called a male voice. “Are you aware that it’s raining gemstones among this lot?”

  Ruby jerked up. “What?” Her eyes scoured. Sure enough, amongst the litter of metal across the deck were glinting stones: multicoloured and tiny, and few and far between, but there nonetheless. Snatching up the nearest stone, she admired its sapphire colour, eyes bright. “We—we got what we came for! Quick, start grabbing them up! Reuben, you get—”

  “Reuben?” Francis dragged himself to sitting. He gasped, clutching his ribcage.

  “Francis, you should—”

  “Help me up. Please.”

  Ruby did as instructed. Francis leaned against her. His face was pale. The stark maroon of blood rendered him paler.

  He lurched across deck, Ruby supporting.

  “Reuben,” he grunted, stopping opposite.

  “Francis,” Reuben said warily.

  Francis unwound himself from Ruby’s grip. He took an unsteady step, firmed himself—and swung a fist, cracking Reuben across the mouth.

  Reuben’s head turned back, slow. His lip was split, and a trickle of blood oozed down his chin. He touched it, eyeing the crimson splotch on his fingertips.

  “That’s for taking advantage of Brie,” Francis spat.

  Reuben nodded. “I deserved that.”

  “Good.” Francis breathed deep and steadied his sway. “Now. Hit me back.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been just as bad.” Francis gestured to himself. “Come on. Hit me.”

  “I … I think Brie should get to do that.”

  “No,” she called from up deck. “I’m not.”

  “Then you do it,” Francis told Reuben. He held his arms wide, inviting. “Come on.”

  Quiet. At last, Glim chimed nervously, “I’ll get in on the action, if Reuben won’t.”

  Evans smirked. “You look beat up enough as it is, Francis. I don’t think it would be fair for me to hit you now.”

  Glim, again: “Yeah. Have you seen your nose? Shit, man, it’s a state. Worse than normal.”

  Francis tried to hold his laugh. He wanted to be serious. But a second of silence was all he could muster, before he dropped his arms, chuckled—then staggered. Reuben caught him.

  “Easy, mate.”

  Ruby stepped forward and took Francis by the shoulders. “I’ll take him from here.” To Francis she said, “Darrel has a couple of beds prepared. Let’s get you to him.”

  “I’m not sure I can walk …”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “Am I?”

  Sure enough, already they were through the door, past the greenhouse, and working their way through the ship. His vision swum, but Francis followed Ruby’s steps, slow and steady in her hold.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” she marvelled. “I just—I can’t believe …”

  “Me neither,” Francis mumbled. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  Ruby laughed. “Just think of how poor Trove feels.”

  “Fucking fed up, I’m guessing.”

  Ruby shook her head, smiling. “Come on. We’re almost there. Hero. Again.”

  But though Francis waved her off, body on autopilot, he didn’t hear. The only thing in his mind now was the hospital bed Ruby led him toward, and the bed rest Darrel would undoubtedly impose.

/>   This time, Francis didn’t think he’d fight it.

  Bed Rest

  (Epilogue)

  Two days later, Francis sat in the bed Darrel had given him. Tape covered his face where his nose had been reconstructed. It wouldn’t be perfect, Darrel warned; a little lopsided, probably. But he’d done all he could, and Francis was grateful.

  He’d got out lightly. Four broken ribs—re-broken; they were the same he’d snapped in the kraken’s first attack—and a broken nose weren’t too bad, all things considered.

  He even swallowed the concoction Vala had smuggled in with relish, lumps and all.

  “There’s more where that came from,” she told him.

  “Good,” Francis said. “Keep it coming.”

  He sat now with Vala and Stefan, and Natasha and Mikhail. Mikhail’s arm was slung casually over Natasha’s shoulder, and she leaned into him, face alight with a smile.

  Darrel re-entered the medical bay, and the flask Vala had brought in disappeared beneath a fold of her dress as easy as if it had vanished.

  “Come on, visiting hours are finished,” the doctor said. “He needs his rest.”

  There was a collective protestation, but Darrel was insistent. So the foursome stood, bade farewell to Francis with pats on the shoulder, from Mikhail and Stefan, a hug from Natasha, and a kiss on the cheek from Vala. Francis waved limply as they departed, doing his best not to smirk at Darrel’s firm expression as he waited, arms folded.

  He commenced fussing over Francis. It was painful, and Francis groaned as the doctor pressed at him.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Gripping two crutches, one leg wrapped in plaster, stood Brie.

  “Hi,” she said. “Can I—I just wanted to see—”

  “No,” Darrel started, but Francis cut across and said, “Oh, come on, let her. She’s been through just as much as I have.”

  Darrel looked irritated, but he nonetheless nodded with an air of exasperation, and left the room.

  “Hey,” Francis said, smiling.

  “Hi.”

  Brie hobbled in. The crutches she’d been given were as small as they could go, yet by her side they still appeared too big. Same with the cast that dwarfed her leg.

  She dropped down onto the next bed, leaning her crutches carefully to one side.

  “How’s your leg?” Francis asked, nodding at it.

  “Hurts. But fine.” She shrugged.

  “I’m glad to hear.”

  “Yeah.” She paused, and her face turned serious. “I wanted to thank you for everything. If you weren’t there …”

  “You have nothing to thank me for. You saved us; you saved everyone. It was all you, Brie.” Francis grinned. “You’re the hero.”

  Colour rose in her cheeks. She averted her gaze. “Um. I don’t think …”

  “Yes, you are.” Francis paused. “And now I need to say something too.” Brie glanced at him, and Francis inhaled. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said. “For—for everything. I was awful to you, and I shouldn’t have been.”

  Brie nodded. “I guess I said some stupid things too.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  It was quiet for a moment. Brie seemed to struggle with something. Francis thought he might need to prompt her, but her eyes fell to his and she said, suddenly, “I wondered if we could start again. Both of us. As a thing.” On the last word, the pink in her cheeks deepened. But she didn’t look away.

  Francis considered her.

  “I don’t think so,” he said at last.

  Brie’s face dropped. “Oh?”

  “It wouldn’t be fair,” Francis said. He struggled with the words. “I … Brie, I love everyone here; every single person on this ship. But I’m not from here. I’m trying to get back home, to my real family. It’s going to be hard enough to leave as it is … But when the opportunity arises, I will. And it wouldn’t be fair to string you along until then.”

  Brie nodded sadly. “I see.”

  “But.” Francis leaned forward, reaching across and taking her hand. “If I weren’t going home … if I were staying here … and if you were just a little bit older … I would absolutely, one hundred percent say yes to you, Brie.”

  Her eyes widened. “R-really?”

  “Really.”

  Her mouth worked. She grinned, looked to the floor. One hand swiped self-consciously at the hair that had fallen across her shoulders. “I guess that’s good enough for me, then.”

  “I’m glad.”

  It was quiet a moment longer. Then Brie edged forward. “I’d better go,” she said. “Darrel will be back in a minute, and I’m sure he’ll tell me off.”

  “Hah. Tell him to piss off.”

  Brie sniggered.

  She took her crutches in hand, lifted herself onto her good foot, and made for the door. Halfway, she stopped, turned, and came back.

  “Thank you, Francis,” she said.

  She bowed, and planted a peck on his cheek. Face rosy red, she pulled a nervous smile, and departed.

  Francis watched her go.

  “Bye, Brie,” he said, low, when she’d gone.

  His mind turned back over the words he’d said. He’d lied, yes. But it had been the right lie; a good one. Not like before.

  Darrel stepped back through the door. “I heard what you said, about telling me to piss off.”

  Francis suppressed his smirk. “Just a bit of doctor-patient banter. Come on, let’s get this examination over with. I’m not sure I’ve had enough pain lately; help me fill my quota before I start inviting people to start hitting me again.”

  “And give me more problems to fix? You’re bad enough as it is, without the rest of the ship beating on you.”

  Francis grinned, ignoring the renewed pain in his side as Darrel felt his abdomen. “Just helping you keep in practise.”

  “There’s practise, and then there’s you.”

  “Complaining?”

  “Hah. No.”

  Francis smiled—well, grimaced. “Didn’t think so,” he said. “Didn’t think so.”

  RUBY CELESTE

  AND THE CHURCH OF IFE

  A chance encounter puts Ruby Celeste and her crew on the path to the city of New Calais. It is home to the Church of Ife, a tight-knit but simple community who believe themselves descendants of the first woman to have made the trip from surface to sky island. They promote peace and love.

  They also sanctioned the theft of a valuable religious relic from a high security research facility.

  Now Ruby and her crew must bring the object back. But finding it will not be easy—and the Church of Ife may not be quite as peaceful as it appears.

  Marcette de Fayre

  (Prologue)

  1

  Guns. All these fucking guns.

  Under cover of dark, a pair of thick binoculars affixed to her face, Marcette de Fayre watched through the front window of her Pod, La Vie. The landscape shifted under La Vie’s slow thrust, which meant she had to move to keep the image still.

  An annoyance, that.

  Compared to what she saw now, though, it was minor.

  The complex she sourced was buried, excepting a yawning mouth. No doors, and no locks, at least out here. Fine, fine. No problems there.

  The issue was the guarding outfit.

  Two men flanked the complex’s entrance. Uniforms black, and stock still, but de Fayre’s eyes were brilliant. She picked them out easily. Same with their rifles.

  Okay, two men, fine. Not a problem. Marcette had dealt with more before.

  But there were other shapes amid the clearing. Not one but two towers had been erected, dark but certainly manned with riflemen.

  A frown tugged Marcette’s pointed face down. She turned an inch, surveying the treeline. Byrebark trees everywhere, everywhere—and beyond the trees’ drooping boughs, more gunmen. Set back—but Marcette saw, all right. She saw, and it made her eyes narrow.

  She huffed a breath, fo
lded up the binoculars, and tossed them onto the wadded blanket left of her. Long arms enfolded her chest.

  “Merde.”

  She replayed the last conversation she’d had with Abraham.

  He had mentioned guards. But no hint that there would be this many.

  And why were there? She was employed to steal a shroud; a religious artefact, apparently. But it couldn’t be, because Marcette had never heard of it, and her parents had shoved their own cultist nonsense down her throat until she pulled her vanishing act. And though there were dozens of religions, all prattling the same similar but culturally different messages, judging by the spiel she had endured when meeting Abraham and his followers, his and her parents’ stories were largely the same.

  So this shroud was either largely unheard of, or just unknown to her. Which went back to the question: why so many guards?

  Marcette eased her scowl. It would be something to ask Abraham when she returned with it. And she fully intended to return, over-large guard detail or not. A pretty penny was hers for completing this job.

  “Bring the ship round, Pierre.”

  A computerised voice answered in monotone. “Instruction received.”

  Silent thrusters pushed.

  Cloaked by darkness, La Vie turned.

  2

  Two options were open to Marcette.

  The first was to drop in from above. Simple enough. Pods were near-silent, and so dark they were close to impossible to pick out from the night sky.

  Dropping in was good. Wary people expected attack to come on their level. Appearing from air caused confusion—and before that confusion could be settled, Marcette’s work was usually done.

  But that tactic was best employed if her targets were clustered in a known position. The ideal solution for a clearing, where towers were erected and further guardsmen were hidden in the encircling tree line? No. Absolutely not.

  So Marcette opted for option two: landing at the island’s edge, and heading in by foot.

  She slunk through trees. A silenced pistol was holstered at her hip. Sleek black hair—same colour as her clothes—was tied back in a ponytail and concealed beneath a tight cap. Back on La Vie she had a rifle, which she usually slung across her back. Tonight, she’d left it. This would be a mostly close-range affair. Besides, she didn’t need anything else weighing her down. Her key to success was speed. A lot of it.