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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  He came out with a cell phone.

  “Bear with me.”

  Whoever he dialled picked up quickly. Adam began to speak. His words came fast, and in a language Francis didn’t understand, but had heard numerous times since stopping in Survoix. He supposed it was this region’s mother tongue. Perhaps Amelie spoke it.

  The call did not take long.

  Adam snapped the phone shut and replaced it in his pocket.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ve spoken to him. His name is Magnus Dwight. He works with freelancers; takes on external contracts, and farms them out, then splits the profit. I’m about to recommend you to him. He’s on the way now.”

  “He’s here?” said Ruby.

  “He is.” Adam craned. “Ah.” He rose and stuck up a hand.

  A large man approached. He was past middle-aged, and the autumn years were growing his already sizeable frame. Above alert, intelligent eyes, his salt and pepper hair was slicked back.

  “Magnus,” Adam greeted. He shook the man’s hand.

  “Mr Crouch.” To Sylvie: “Mrs Crouch. Congratulations. You’re a very lucky woman—and he is an even luckier man.”

  Sylvie smiled. “Thank you, Mr Dwight.”

  After Adam had given Magnus the round of introductions, he returned to his seat. Magnus took the last remaining, broad frame overspilling its edges.

  “So,” he said, leaning forward, “I hear you’re looking for a job.”

  Ruby leaned forward too. “What kind of job?”

  6

  “A couple of weeks ago, a research firm came to me,” said Magnus. “An object they uncovered several months ago, and had been investigating, was stolen from their facility.”

  “What kind of object?” Ruby asked.

  “A religious relic. A shroud.”

  “Do they know who stole it?”

  “The person who snatched it up was likely contracted for the job. The place was high security. Someone able to break in had to have known what they were doing.”

  Francis felt an apprehensive flutter.

  He took a sideways look at Ruby.

  She must have felt it too, because the curiosity on her face was now underlined by wariness.

  “Very few of us are trained in combat,” she said. “I appreciate your offer, but the likelihood of us breaking into a high security compound …”

  “The place it was lifted from was high security. The place where it ended up—at least, where it’s believed to have ended up—is a religious city called New Calais. It’s home to a group who call themselves the Church of Ife. The church has a strict policy of non-violence.”

  Ruby said, “And you want us to go in there and steal the shroud back again.”

  Magnus nodded. “That’s correct.”

  Ruby pondered. Francis watched her. Her intrigue had been piqued. Outwardly, she appeared measured and composed, but Francis knew her well.

  Yet Magnus had said: the shroud had been stolen from a high security research complex. And even if this Church of Ife employed a zero violence policy, it didn’t prevent the continued hire of freelance guards. Freelance guards who certainly would not follow the church’s position.

  “How much does it pay?” Ruby finally asked.

  “Fifty thousand yensk,” said Magnus. “It’s not enough to get Francis here a trip home, but it’s a start. And if you execute on this task with finesse, it could lead to regular employ.” He leaned back. “Food for thought.”

  Ruby, face still creased, gave a slow nod. “Food for thought indeed.”

  7

  At some point, Francis had had a third bottle of cider. Spread over the hours the night had gone on, he didn’t feel much of a buzz—until Reuben and Glim had resurfaced and foisted another upon him. He took it happily.

  Half down, he decided he was at last daring enough to try one of those mystery canapés he’d been eyeing earlier.

  The night was in full swing. Francis didn’t know the time; nor did he care to look. He knew it was late, though. Music blared. The dance floor was full. Kids still hurtled underfoot, but most of them had either been taken home—or to a nearby hotel, which seemed more likely, unless the majority of the newlyweds’ friends came solely from Survoix—or were outside, in the cool.

  A middle-aged woman excused herself as she bustled away from the buffet table. Her eyes said she was beyond tipsy. Like most everyone, Francis thought. If Reuben and Glim got their way, he’d be following her into the haze.

  The tray of canapés was much emptier now. Almost demolished, there were only a few left. Francis was pleased to see only one of their number was topped with prawn.

  He took one of the mystery vegetable ones. It really did look like aubergine. And he liked aubergine.

  He took a bite—

  The noise he made was somewhere between disgust, a desperate cough, and a dry retch. Either the aubergine was off, or this was no aubergine at all.

  He spat into his hand.

  Napkins were bundled intermittently along the table. Francis snatched up a handful and wrapped the partially chewed mess. He threw in the rest of the canapé along with it, balled it thickly, and shoved it into a pocket to dispose of properly later. Then he swigged the last of his cider to get the taste away. By the last drop, he’d just about managed. Just. If he thought too hard he could recall the flavour.

  How had Mikhail managed it?

  Easy. He’s got a stomach of steel.

  After his failed experiment, Francis didn’t much fancy tackling anything else from the buffet. There was no telling what strange ‘delicacies’ might lie among its offerings, nor what regular, everyday foodstuff they might pretend to be.

  “Hey, Francis,” Reuben called.

  Francis strolled over. “All right?”

  “Check it out,” Reuben said. He gestured across the marquee, to where he and Glim watched with wide grins. “Brie’s pulled.”

  Francis looked.

  Sure enough, there she was. The man from earlier had evidently decided to try his luck again. And by the look of it, he was succeeding. The two were perched on adjacent seats—seats which were very, very close. The man’s arm was wrapped around the back of Brie’s chair. His knee tilted her way. Not touching just yet, but Francis recognised it for what it was: a slow game of closing in. Before long a hand would go to her knee, the other would creep into the small of her back, and all Brie’s protestations would be long forgotten.

  Francis grinned. “So she has.”

  He, Reuben, and Glim watched. Sure enough, the suitor’s hand came up to brush a hair out of Brie’s face. She giggled happily.

  “Bet you twenty yensk she doesn’t spend tonight on the ship,” said Reuben.

  The music blaring from nearby speakers faded out. A disc jockey came over the top.

  “This one is for all the couples here tonight. Mr and Mrs Crouch, that includes you, so make your way down!”

  A slower number began.

  The dance floor bustled, rearranging. Many left. Others came together. Francis met gaze with not Mikhail but Natasha, who rolled her eyes but grinned nonetheless as Mikhail pulled her to her feet. Likewise, Adam and Sylvie Crouch moved through the crowd, him holding her hand high, to take centre position on the floor.

  As piano began to play, they started a slow sway around each other.

  Across the way, Brie’s suitor stood and extended a hand.

  “Looks like there’s no slow dance for you tonight,” said Reuben to Francis.

  “He can have it,” Francis said.

  But apparently Francis’s luck was out. Brie’s companion asked her to dance—and Brie’s face dropped. She lurched out of her seat, pushing past the man, eyes searching.

  Reuben laughed. “Doesn’t look like it.”

  Brie found Francis. She lifted a hand, opened her mouth. To say what, Francis didn’t know; a second later her feet went out from under her and she crashed headlong into the floor.

  “Someone’s drunk,” said Glim
.

  “Shut up,” Francis said. “I’m going to make sure she’s okay.”

  He jogged over.

  An elderly woman was doing her best to squat by Brie’s prone form. Low, the bow was not: she clutched her back.

  “It’s okay,” said Francis. “I’m with her.”

  Brie groaned.

  Francis took her shoulder and levered her up. “Are you okay?”

  “Ow … ow …”

  “Here, let me help you.”

  Carefully, Francis assisted her to her feet. She was unsteady all the way, and though light, she seemed to throw all her weight into doing exactly the opposite of what Francis wanted.

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  “A little … my friend got me champagne …”

  Francis pursed his lips. Now Brie was standing, he saw just how far gone she was. Her eyes were dim and unfocussed. Though Francis planted hands on her shoulders, she could not keep steady. Her feet struggled to follow her lilting cant, and Francis struggled with them.

  “Let’s get you some air,” he said.

  He led her out. Reuben and Glim laughed as he passed, and Glim tipped his glass. Francis just shook his head.

  Bright white orbs glowed around the marquee, and at the distant edges of the grounds. The night sky seemed only darker for them.

  Guests sprawled. Bottles littered the grass. Not far from the exit Francis took, a plate of half-eaten food seemed to have been smeared across the turf.

  Francis walked Brie to a lonely spot around the side. She clung to him for support.

  Music still hummed, but it was muted.

  “There we go,” he said. “Breathe.”

  Brie closed her eyes and obeyed. Deep lungfuls, in and out.

  After a couple of minutes, she said, “Okay. I’m feeling better now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I feel—I feel—”

  And then she vomited.

  8

  The walk back to the ship was long. Cold, too. By the time Francis guided Brie through the Harbinger’s top door, his knuckles were white and the skin tight. He was glad to meet the warmth of the ship’s confines.

  “Steady,” he said to Brie. “Just got some stairs here. Take them carefully. That’s it, lean on me …”

  They got down without another fall.

  “I’m going to take you back to your room now,” he said. “But I don’t know where it is. You need to tell me.”

  Brie pointed vaguely. “It’s … this way …”

  Somehow, Francis was able to follow Brie’s instructions, coming at last to a door with a brass plaque. BRIE CHANNING was printed across the top.

  “Here we go,” Francis said. “Have you got your key?”

  Brie unhooked her arm to take the clutch bag she’d stuffed underneath. Her groping hand missed, and it hit the floor.

  “I’ve got it,” Francis said.

  He fished her key out, slotted it in, and pushed the door open.

  Brie practically fell inside.

  The room, Francis saw, was not much different to his own. Same single bed; same wardrobe; same desk and mirror. Brie seemed to generate the same disorder Francis did. Clothes were tossed in heaps, and one open door to the wardrobe showed only half of the hangers were full. Books were stacked madcap at the foot of Brie’s bed. A couple of the piles had spilled over.

  Brie landed heavily onto her bed. She laid back, eyes closed. Then, a moment later, she wrenched herself halfway up, and began to pry at her dress.

  “Need to change,” she huffed.

  Francis scrambled back before he could see anything. “I’ll just—I’ll get you some water.”

  He yanked the door closed, and marched up the corridor, heading for the cafeteria. Good thing none of the workhands were here, or they’d deepen his flustered flush.

  After dawdling as long as possible, Francis headed back. He knocked gently on the door, hoping …

  “Come in,” Brie said heavily.

  He slipped it open.

  She was, thank goodness, changed. She’d clambered into pyjamas and then bed. The covers were thrown across diagonally, so one leg stuck out, and the opposite arm. Her hair swam on the pillow. It would be knotted in the morning—but Francis doubted it would be the main cause of her pain when she woke.

  “Here you go,” he said. “Your water.”

  “Thank you …”

  “Drink some now. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  Brie edged up as far as she could muster. It wasn’t much, and she made no effort to take the cup. Francis pressed it to her lips. Brie swallowed once, twice, and then pulled back. Water sloshed onto her neck, but she just laid flat again.

  “I’ll put it by your bed,” Francis said. “Be careful when you get up.”

  Brie made a noise. It sounded vaguely like ’kay.

  “I’ll turn your light off.”

  He stood, then paused to rearrange her covers. She might not have felt it for the alcohol, but it had been cold out, and she ought to warm up.

  Her eyes flickered as he was squaring the duvet.

  “We didn’t dance …”

  “Another time,” said Francis.

  A heavy breath. In, out. Almost asleep. “Promise?”

  “Uh huh.” Francis finished. “Promise.”

  Brie gave the tiniest nod. “’kay.”

  “Goodnight, Brie.”

  “G’night …”

  Francis headed out. He flicked off the light, and closed the door.

  9

  Although Francis thought he and Brie were the only two back on the Harbinger so far, he was wrong. His route to his own quarters passed the ship’s command centre, and he habitually peeked inside.

  Ruby was in there. Sometime, she’d changed back into her regular captain’s garb.

  Francis knocked on the slid-back door. “Evening.”

  Ruby looked around from her workstation. “Oh. Hi, Francis. I didn’t realise you were here.”

  Francis came in. He took the usual station, planting his back against the wall. “Brie got sick. I thought it was best to bring her back.”

  “Aha.”

  Except for the occasional clack of a key, it was quiet.

  Ruby broke the silence. “I got co-ordinates for New Calais.”

  “Oh?”

  Back to him, she nodded. “Yep.”

  Francis waited for more. When none came, he said, “Are we going?”

  “Yep.”

  “When?”

  “We’ll set out tomorrow.”

  “Is it far?”

  “A couple of weeks,” said Ruby.

  Francis inclined his head.

  He cast a look at Ruby’s back. She was quiet tonight.

  “Thank you.”

  She paused, and looked around. For a moment she appeared weary; wearier than Francis had ever seen her. Then her mouth pulled up in a half-smile. Francis returned it.

  “You look tired,” she said. “Why don’t you go to bed? It’s been a long day.”

  Now she said it, Francis couldn’t help but yawn. He did his best to fight it, clapping a hand to his mouth.

  His attempts were fruitless.

  Ruby let out a small snicker.

  “All right, you’ve convinced me,” he said. Another yawn threatened.

  Ruby grinned. “Goodnight, Francis.”

  “Night, Ruby. Don’t stay up too late.”

  She assured him she would not.

  Two Days Out

  (Chapter Four)

  1

  The evening two days before arriving at New Calais, Ruby called a meeting. It was not in the rec room, nor did it comprise the full ship. Everyone else would be amassed tomorrow; for now, only key crew members were present: Mikhail, Reuben, Glim, Herschel, plus Natasha, Francis, and Trove. They were arranged in the command centre, which Ruby was borrowing before the shift change-over.

  “This,” said Ruby, “is New Calais.” />
  She tapped a button on her workstation.

  In addition to the Harbinger’s six consoles, the command centre was home to one large display, covering the front wall. Usually it cycled through the ship’s endless slew of diagnostic processes: programs which kept eternal watch over the SkyHugger’s many components to ensure they remained working nominally. In times of need, the display was given over to one of any number of camera feeds. It could also switch to their lower-res but more dextrous drone’s visuals, sending it in for close-quarters image capture.

  At Ruby’s button press, the main display opened to an entry she’d pulled from the ship’s databanks.

  A panorama greeted the waiting faces.

  Mikhail whistled. “Fancy.”

  Francis peered.

  These past eight months, he had seen all manner of ports and cities, from small to large and every size in between. He thought, by now, he’d seen it all.

  New Calais blew that out of the water.

  The city was not just one island, but several. That in itself was not strange. New Harlem, one of the biggest cities Francis had seen this year, was composed of multiple islands, as had been the weather station Ruby rescued Tesla Wong from. But where those clusters had been tight, New Calais’s islands were spread far apart.

  Central was the main landmass. It was surrounded by eight smaller islands, each equidistant to its outlying partners. Long, straight walkways, like the spokes of a bicycle, connected them to the central island. The tyre illusion was completed by a final arcing walkway, easily as wide as the Harbinger, drawing a circle through the outer islands.

  It was not just this peculiar arrangement which made Francis pause. A spectacular white building rose from the central island like a pearly thumb. Towers and turrets made its steep curves jagged. Stained glass windows split façades, and they sparkled in brilliant violet. An enormous sculpted woman topped the structure, hands pressed together.

  “They go all-out this neck of the woods, huh?” said Reuben.

  “New Calais is sort of like a monastery,” said Ruby. “Visitors are free to come and go, as we are, but the only people living here are followers of the church itself.”

  She clicked, and the image changed. A wood carving of the same woman overlooking the city appeared in the panorama’s place. One hand clutched a locket encircling her neck.