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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  Underbrush whispered in the breeze. Knobbled and willowy byrebark trees passed. Marcette slipped through their branches with all the ease and quiet of a prowling cat. Her eyes swept. Looking; always looking. No one out here; the clearing was a solid mile away. Still, it paid to be sure.

  When Marcette’s mental calculator said she was a hundred metres or so shy of the tree line, she heard noise. She paused, breath held, ears pricked …

  Talking. The men were talking.

  A dark smile curled the corners of de Fayre’s lips. Let them talk. It would make them easier to find—and they’d be distracted.

  She stalked, following idle conversation. Closer, ever closer … and still, as the bodies of these two men solidified, they never detected de Fayre.

  At least, one didn’t. The other had a brief inkling something was wrong when his partner’s head puffed out in a black spray of blood and gore—yet before he could even begin to understand what had happened, he went down too.

  Soft breeze blew. Foliage whickered.

  Undetected, Marcette moved.

  3

  Byron Montague, best known as Tish to his friends and colleagues (and even himself, for a reason he no longer quite remembered), had walked into tonight expecting it to be the same as any other: long and quiet, spent on alert.

  Tish didn’t mind. In fact, he liked it.

  Problem was, Tish’s attentiveness had waned. Five months, he’d been on the payroll now. And in those five months, what had happened?

  A whole lot of nothing, that was what.

  Now, ‘nothing’ was what Tish expected. Eight or nine or ten hours of darkness and nothing. Just staring out from the tree line, ears and eyes attuned … but not always. Sometimes, his attention slipped. He got to thinking. About nothing, really—but thoughts were thoughts, and they kept his focus at least partly off the job.

  Tish knew this. But he had decided: sporadic focus was okay. Nothing had happened yet, and nothing surely would.

  It was this line of reasoning that was Tish’s downfall.

  He was just wondering about taking a trip back home, to visit his Ma and Pa and maybe Lonny, the gal from next door who had been growing into a fox when Tish left—and who now, if his math was correct, was a lovely legal seventeen years old.

  He was just pondering this when a gun pressed to his head.

  Shock said to jerk. Fear said to freeze. Tish started with the former, then moved to the latter, all thoughts of lovely Lonny, lovely legal Lonny, pissed away.

  “Easy, there,” came a quiet woman’s voice from behind. “Don’t you make a sound, or I’ll pull the trigger faster than you can get a word out. Understand?”

  Tish was frozen. Couldn’t move.

  “Nod or shake your head,” the woman said. “That’s how we’ll do this. I talk; you nod or shake. Understand?”

  Trembling, Tish nodded.

  “And you won’t make a sound, will you?”

  He shook. Eyes like saucers bored forward.

  “Fantastique. I need you to tell me something. Okay?” No response, so she ground the gun into Tish’s temple—his breath hitched; he fought not to cower away—and she repeated, “Okay?”

  He nodded. Once: up and down. Quick and terrified.

  “Are you a good shot?” Her free hand nudged the rifle Tish clutched in robotic hands.

  He nodded.

  “Perfect. You’re going to do a little job for me, got it?”

  The gun ground. Tish gasped, and nodded again.

  “You see those sniper towers?” After Tish’s nod, and a dart of the eyes to the closest—even they didn’t seem to want to move—the woman continued, “They manned?” After confirmation: “More than one person?”

  This time, Tish shook his head.

  “Both?”

  A nod.

  “Okay. All right. Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to lift up that gun of yours, and you’re going to shoot both the men in those towers. To kill. Okay? And then, once you’ve done that, you’re going to shoot those nice men stood by the entrance to this little place you’re guarding. Got that?”

  If Tish’s eyes could bulge more, they did right then. He goggled at the closer tower again. Morty was up there! Morty, who Tish spent mealtimes with, shootin’ the shit and—

  “Got that?”

  “I can’t,” Tish choked out.

  The gun pushed harder into his temple. He cringed, desperate to backpedal. Though he could not see, he could almost feel the woman’s finger tightening on the trigger.

  “And why not?”

  “Others—in the trees—they’ll hear—they’ll come.”

  “They’re all dead.” Offhanded, almost, but matter-of-fact, too. And Tish had no question: what this woman said was true. “And unless you want to join them, you’ll follow instructions. Now.” Harder and harder, metal pressed. Tish did cower away, but the woman matched him and made a warning noise, and he did his best to steel.

  “Now,” she repeated. “Are you going to do as I say, and survive this? Or am I going to have to handle the job myself?”

  No, Tish wanted to say. I won’t do it.

  But this was something else Tish was learning tonight: he was human, and when faced with mortality, he was just as self-serving as anyone else. And if he had to put a bullet through the heads of those last four men—for they certainly were the last four, the two in the towers and the two by the complex entrance—then he would do so. He absolutely, unequivocally would.

  So he nodded. Jerky, but he did.

  “Good,” said the woman. She sounded pleased. “Towers first, then.” When he didn’t move, she said, “Go on.”

  Obediently, Tish lifted his rifle. He raised until he could see down its sights … could pick out Morty, stood at the top of that near tower. His back was to Tish.

  The crosshair quivered.

  “Calming breaths,” the woman said. “You don’t want to mess this up, do you? It would make me awfully unhappy.”

  Tish shook.

  He closed his eyes. Breathed long and deep. Just as he’d learned during training. Tried to empty his mind of the fact that the barrel of some assassin’s pistol was leaving a nice indent in the side of his head; tried to empty it, too, of the fact he was about to shoot four men he knew well—one of them very well—so he, cowardly Byron Montague, could hightail it out of here with his head on his shoulders and his brains intact.

  When his eyes opened again, his grip was still. The rifle did not tremble.

  Crosshairs floated against the back of Morty’s head.

  The night split with a crack. There was no flash of light; that was all pyrotechnics added on those dumb teleplays Tish used to watch. Just a noise like elastic snapping amped up a hundred times, and a punch of recoil.

  The men by the complex entrance jerked into action, lifting their weapons.

  “Quick. The other tower.”

  Tish swung for it, leaving the slumped smear that was Morty.

  The other gunner was smaller, and moving. But Tish found him just fine, accounted for his movement—and down he went with another great CRACK!

  Just the men on the ground now.

  “Hey!” one shouted. “What’s going on out there?”

  The other exchanged a look with his partner, and began to stride across the dirt clearing.

  “Do it!” the woman said.

  Tish choked a breath. His grip shook again.

  The barrel of the woman’s pistol rammed so hard into his temple he thought it might fracture his skull.

  “Do it, and you get to live.”

  The approaching rifleman was less than fifteen metres shy now. In just a few moments he would break into the tree line and see Tish—see this woman—and then what? Shoot the woman dead? Maybe. Or maybe she would get him first, and Tish—well, that would be the end of the line for him.

  Do it, and you get to live.

  Ten metres. “What’s going on in there?” Close enough to see his
face. “Why were you shoo—”

  The second syllable of shooting was lost to a CRACK, and the rifleman’s head disappeared. His body seemed to want to carry forward another step, but it only succeeded by half. Then it twisted, and slumped into a heap.

  Before it hit the ground, there was one final CRACK. Through Tish’s rifle sights, the last guard careened backward.

  All was still.

  “There, now,” said the woman. “Merci beaucoup.”

  That was it. He was done. He was guilty, his conscience dirtied forever—but he was free. He was—

  Nothing more. Because a dull thump sounded just above Tish’s left ear, and just like the four men he’d shot, he went down like a sack of bricks.

  Marcette gave his body a distasteful look. Tish—or what was left of the ruin that had been his face, at least—looked back up with silent accusation.

  “I lied,” de Fayre told him.

  4

  The complex entrance opened to a downward slope extending half a dozen metres or so. Dark, but that was fine. No problems there. Marcette’s eyes were well-adjusted. She spent most of her life in the shadows, way most jobs went.

  Though the yawning mouth was carved from rock, and the floor and walls started dirt, there was soon a shift. Before the slope flattened, packed earth was replaced with solid steel.

  Marcette gave no pause. But a fragmentary part of her thought: perhaps this place had been a temple. One whose passages had been reinforced by these plates of interlocked metal. Or maybe a short, stubby little one, and these people had carved new tunnels beyond its terminus.

  At the first corner, Marcette eased her head around so just an eye poked out.

  Dark and clear.

  She bounced down the hall on springy heels.

  Now she was inside, there was a new question. When would she encounter others? More almost certainly guarded the structure’s interior. Concentrated around the shroud itself?

  There might be cameras, too. They would pose more of a problem. But, like the guard detail she’d just dispatched, not impossible. The key was speed. A lot of it.

  Down long metal halls, de Fayre stalked. Her eyes darted through the gloom. Still no light; probably to make damn sure not even the slightest glow bled out of the gaping entryway behind.

  Overkill.

  The passage, Marcette realised after her fourth rightward coil, was moving down in a wide, squared twist. How far? She could not be sure. Sky islands were so bottom-heavy. A small surface area, and then a whole lot of rock beneath.

  This could be a long trek.

  Turn after turn, dark hall after dark hall. They alternated: one straight and flat, the next sloping further into the island’s core. All were bland. The only marks were the bolts driven through each of the steel plates, coming in regular stripes along the walls and floor.

  No light, no doors, and no cameras.

  Had the makers of this place been over-confident in their guards?

  Idiots.

  When at last de Fayre’s mental tracker said she had descended a clear fifty metres below the island’s surface, she saw light. It had been bleeding slowly, but now she forked the next turn, she saw it. At the end of the corridor, yellow gradient burning from the next right.

  And now: doors. Lots of doors.

  Rearranging the pistol in her grip, Marcette slowed her pace. Body bent low, she inched forward.

  The first pair of doors loomed left and right. Stencilled on: QUARTERS.

  Day-shift might be there. Marcette would need to be wary of them.

  Further off, one door on the left was marked CAFETERIA. Also sealed. Directly opposite: SUPPLIES AND EQUIPMENT.

  Others. Marcette scowled. Except for NO ENTRY, both bore no marking. No designation. Not even a handle! Just keyholes.

  It would be just her luck the shroud was behind one of those.

  She would check later, if it came to that. For now, more corridor to follow.

  At the corner, she pressed close to the wall. Hand tight on her pistol, she eased out to look around.

  This new path was shorter. At the very end, a steel door—and a thickset man.

  He made a noise of surprise. Lifted a rifle—

  Marcette was faster. She darted out with her pistol levelled. One pump, one silenced crack, and a bullet flew. Not for the fellow’s head; this one buried in the hand wrapping his rifle’s grip. He cried out, and the rifle clattered to the floor. Mercifully, it did not go off.

  “Shut up,” de Fayre said. “Or I do the other one.”

  The guard’s mouth sealed.

  “What’s in there?” Marcette asked.

  No answer.

  “Answer me or I shoot and find out anyway.”

  He debated for a long moment. Same as the man de Fayre had borrowed outside: testing his mettle. Wondering how prepared he was to die for what lay behind him.

  Not very, evidently: “A relic.” Pain hoarsened his voice. “Our archaeologists found it—”

  “Spare the history lesson,” Marcette cut across. “It’s the shroud, correct?”

  “How do you—”

  Marcette jabbed her gun. “It’s the shroud. Correct?”

  “Yes,” the guard breathed.

  “Any other guards?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “We have them stationed outside. Two dozen—”

  “They’re dead.” Just as she’d told Tish, Marcette spoke half offhanded, half matter-of-fact. “I killed them.” Then: “What’s your name?”

  “Frederick Ra—”

  “Don’t want your surname. You got keys to that door behind you, Freddy?”

  A hollow thought of lying went through Frederick’s head. But it would do no good. If this woman was intent enough on getting to the shroud that she’d slaughtered all the men up above, she would not think twice about rolling his still warm body over—after putting a bullet between his eyes, of course—and searching his pockets.

  He answered, “Yes.”

  “Which pocket?”

  He moved to point, but Marcette jabbed with the gun. His arms went back up, palms open.

  “Tell, don’t show. Which pocket?”

  “Trousers; on the right.”

  Marcette’s eyes flicked. There was a subtle bulge there, telltale enough. Keys, though?

  “Take them out. Slow. That’s it, like that.”

  Frederick slipped his right hand into the pocket. The left remained exactly where it was: hovering, somehow steady, by his left shoulder.

  Calloused fingers found the keychain, and engulfed it.

  “No funny business,” de Fayre warned. “Bring them out slowly. So I can see them.”

  Inchwise, Frederick did. The chain dangled from his index and middle finger, looped by the steel ring from which the keys hung.

  And they were definitely keys. No tricks from this one.

  “Merci beaucoup,” Marcette said. “Now then, Frederick. You’re going to help me out. Not for long; believe me, I want this to be over just as much as you do. So, here’s how it’s going to go: you’re going to turn around and unlock that door, and let us both inside. You first, me following. You’re going to help me get this shroud you’re guarding—and then I’ll be out of your hair.” Her eyes flickered up; Frederick sported a buzzcut of the shortest variety. “What little you have. Understand?”

  Frederick’s eyes bulged. “You can’t—”

  “I can, and I will.”

  “No, you don’t understand; the shroud—”

  “Shut up,” Marcette said. Her voice barely lifted, but Frederick’s words died in his throat.

  “Good,” Marcette said. “Now. Freddy. Take us in there.”

  5

  A walkway bordered the perimeter of this new room, a good five or six metres up. It was this Marcette de Fayre and Frederick Rames came out on. Beneath were rows of machines and strange instruments. Some spewed reams of paper in neat piles, scrawled with data. The machines had go
ne silent, the printouts still.

  “What’s all the gear for?” Marcette asked.

  “Measuring the shroud. It has strange properties, and—”

  “First three words were all I wanted.” Still, Marcette’s eyes roved the bank of computers and shimmering instruments. Perhaps Freddy’s answer explained why it was so heavily guarded.

  “It’s down there?” she asked, nodding sideways at the stairs.

  “Yes. But I really think—”

  “And I really think you should shut up and follow instructions. Now lead the way.”

  Frederick swallowed hard. His throat had gone dry, had been dry all this time, and nothing would wet it or dislodge its newfound blockage.

  He led woodenly to the stairway. His feet clanked underfoot. But the woman behind—her gait was so quiet as to be silent. If Frederick did not know better, he might turn to be sure he was not alone.

  Marcette saw the shroud before she reached the room’s floor. It was deep red, and placed atop a raised plinth. She cast it half a look, then could not help but sweep the machines again. So many instruments, and almost all pointing to the room’s centre—at the shroud.

  What was going on here?

  The reverie lasted all of an instant. Marcette tugged herself back out and said to Frederick, “Any security measures keeping that thing put?”

  “No. There’s no need. It’s—”

  “Prove it.”

  Frederick jerked around. “What?”

  “Prove it,” Marcette said. “Take it off its little stand.”

  “I—I can’t!”

  “Why not? You said there’s no security on it, correct?”

  “Yes—”

  “So, prove it. Take it for me. Just so I know.”

  “I can’t!” Frederick cried. “You don’t understand! We don’t have security, but the shroud—”

  Marcette strode forward in one swift movement. One moment Frederick was staring at this black-clad woman with the pointed face and cold eyes; the next she was just inches from him, and her pistol was jammed right beneath his chin.