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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  “No, not the ladders. That would be very dangerous. Here, let’s find a finished rack, and I’ll show you.”

  It did not take long to locate one.

  With the help of the rest of the group, Remie detached the end part of the rack: a stretch approximately four metres long. The brakes were taken off next—it turned out there were wheels on the bottom of the contraption—and they pushed it down the long aisle at the side of the bay. Francis trooped along behind Remie, a cursory hand planted on the rack. He suspected he was little help.

  A bank of great machines lined the wall at the hydroponics bay’s far end. It stretched from floor to ceiling, with apertures the perfect size for each of the planting troughs.

  “This thing does most of the work for us,” said Remie. “We just line it up …”

  The device whirred into life. It pulled the rack forward. Apertures opened. Francis craned to see as each of the troughs disappeared from view, leaving the rack empty.

  “The machine takes apart the feeding troughs, detects what’s growing inside, and harvests them. Then it cleans the trays, recycles the feed, and refills the rack, ready to be replanted.”

  Francis wasn’t sure his eyebrows could go any higher. “I just spent two and a half hours stabbing myself in the fingers trying to weave silk, and over here all you need to do is push a rack over to a big machine?”

  Remie laughed. “Sometimes efficiency wins. Oh, here we go; it’s refilling the rack, look.”

  While Jenny and the rest of Remie’s group spent the afternoon sowing seeds, Remie decided this was too high-level for Francis to begin with.

  “The seeds don’t just go in the feed, you see. You have to put them in these special planters—see, like Katja is doing. That’s it, Kat, you’ve got it!”

  The smile Katja pulled told Francis she hadn’t understood much of Remie beyond her enthusiasm and the mention of her name. Good thing Stanley was there to translate.

  “We’ll spend today just going over how to check the plants are healthy.”

  Francis was far better at this than he had been on the loom, thanks in no small part to the amount of time he’d spent in Vala’s greenhouse. When he got back to the Harbinger, he would need to be sure to thank her profusely for allowing him to loiter so often.

  5

  Just shy of three o’clock, Francis returned with Remie to his living quarters. It was personal study time.

  “What is it I do?” he asked when he came to the door.

  “You study.”

  “I guess I don’t know what that means. I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s my first religion,” Francis finished with a lame laugh.

  “Think of it as reflection time,” said Remie.

  “Like meditation?”

  “No, although you can, if that’s what personal study means to you.”

  Francis wasn’t sure if this was serious or a jibe.

  Remie laughed at his expression. “Okay, let me tell you what I do. I take my copy of Impartations, I sit on my bed, and I read from it. Sometimes I read many stories; sometimes I read just one small part. And I think about it, and what it means; the lessons it provides. I reflect on what they mean to me and my life. And I use that knowledge to be the best person I can possibly be. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so. So, I just read from anywhere?”

  “Anywhere at all. Yes.” Remie smiled. “The bell chimes at six. Would you like me to meet you here, or at the mess hall?”

  “Uh—here would be great. Thanks.”

  “Will do. Enjoy your study time, friend.”

  She headed away.

  “Wait,” Francis called.

  Remie paused and looked inquisitively back over her shoulder.

  “You said I can read from anywhere. Where’s the best place to start?”

  “The beginning. Always the beginning.”

  6

  Back in the confines of his room, Francis slipped open his desk drawer. In the corner, where he had replaced it: IMPARTATIONS. He lifted it out gently, then eased back onto the edge of his bed. Carefully, he folded open the front cover.

  The text began on page one. It was minute, and filled every page in two columns. Small breaks split the stories, he saw as he flicked forward, but their occurrence was sporadic. The first was five pages in, and a second came two sides later.

  Five pages of tiny text laid out in columns, though? Francis figured it might be closer to twenty if this book were printed normally.

  Frowning, he turned back to the first sheaf. The page turns were whispers.

  The language was antiquated, and Francis had to re-read several paragraphs two or three times to penetrate the text. Others he could not fathom at all, and gave up on. Best to push forward and piece together what he could. He’d just have to cross his fingers no one quizzed him on it.

  The first story was the beginning, as Remie said. Truly: it picked up on the surface, with Ife’s parents. Neither was named. The tale concerned itself only with Ife’s birth, and the reactions of all who came to see her.

  Predictably, she was idolised even then.

  Francis’s frown came back as he reached the end.

  What am I supposed to take away from that?

  How much more of this did he have to sit through?

  Closing the book and dropping it at his side on the bed, Francis opened his desk drawer again. As well as his diary and writing things, he’d also placed his communicator inside. Fat lot of good it did as a communicator now. The wrist bracelet was little more than a glorified watch.

  He took it and sat on the bed, back to the wall.

  3:48PM.

  Brilliant. All that work and not even an hour had gone by. And he was supposed to do this every single day?

  He opened the communicator’s contact menu, and thumbed through. Name after name passed, alphabetised by forename. Amelie Telford first. Francis didn’t quite miss her yet.

  Brie Channing. Darrel Stitt. Francis wondered what kind of hell he might be giving Ruby. If he heard she’d dragged herself up to see Francis off this morning, when Darrel was so insistent she rest …

  He thumbed right through, passing Glim Peters, Mikhail Khorkov, Natasha Brady, among others … and came to Ruby Celeste.

  He looked at the name for a long time.

  At last, he sighed and closed the communicator’s menu. It was closing in on four o’clock now. Two hours to go. Then, tonight, he could talk to her—could talk to all these people, if he wanted. No need to pine. They were not long gone.

  Stuffing the communicator back into the drawer and returning to his bed, Francis picked up his copy of Impartations. He found the first break, the one demarcating the end of Ife’s birth and the exultance she generated in her family and neighbours.

  Eyebrows knitted together, he began to read again.

  7

  When dinner was done, Remie invited Francis on a tour of some of the facilities on the other satellite islands. “The listening station is a wonder,” she said. “Jenny, Allison and I go up most nights, if you’d like to come?”

  “Thank you,” Francis said. “I think I’d like to chill out this evening, though. There’s been a lot to take in today, and I’m quite tired.”

  “Oh yes, of course, I expect you are! Take it easy, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning at five.”

  Ah yes. Five o’clock. Francis could not wait.

  Remie dispatched with, Francis returned to his living quarters. There, he shut and locked the door and dragged closed all his curtains. He pulled the crimson robes over his head, discarding them on the bed. Then he retrieved his backpack from his closet. After checking several times the bedroom curtains were not cracked, he took out the radio, and issued a call.

  While it chimed, he turned the volume down as low as it could go. No telling how thin the walls might be, and placing a secretive call like this was not the best way of finding out.

  After the fifth pulse, the channel opened.

&
nbsp; “Francis?”

  Crackles broke the voice, and Francis had to turn it down further. But there was no mistaking:

  “Hi, Ruby.”

  “Are you safe?”

  “Yep.”

  “What happened today? Did you get into the church? Are you sure there’s no danger to you?”

  Francis laughed. “One question at a time.”

  Ruby’s queries came in a quick-fire staccato Francis answered as concisely as he could. Yes, he had been welcomed into the church. The people were all friendly and happy. He had been partnered with a woman called Remie, who had shown him the ropes. She was nice, as had been everyone else. Just normal people, Francis thought. No, he didn’t think it was a lie or façade. If it was, they perpetuated it well. Yes, it was early, of course it was; but this was part of why he was here. Over the coming days he would find out more. Likewise the issue of danger, though from what Francis could tell he did not appear to be in any, at least immediately.

  “What about the shroud?” Ruby asked.

  “I think it’s a bit soon for that,” Francis told her.

  Ruby hadn’t responded to that, but Francis could picture her face well enough. Frowning. Maybe plucking her bottom lip as she thought. She did that a lot.

  She asked a few more questions, but her lines of enquiry had mostly been exhausted, at least as far as Francis could provide answers at this juncture. He did give a breakdown of the day’s schedule, and between them they decided Ruby would call at seven-forty-five in the evening. Francis would be at less risk that way. Later and the residents of New Calais would be dropping off to sleep. Francis was likelier to be heard in the reduced bustle. Likewise, Ruby was not in danger of disrupting the night-shift, who would not arrive for work for a while yet.

  All this finally dispensed with, Francis shifted to his questions.

  “How are you?” he asked first. “Are you still feeling ill?”

  “I’m fine,” said Ruby.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would Darrel say if I asked him?”

  “Darrel’s not here.”

  Francis snorted. “Right then. So you don’t feel much better.”

  “I’m well enough,” said Ruby. “Well enough that I should be where you are now, not you.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  Ruby made a dismissive sound.

  Francis smiled. “You’re resting properly, right?”

  “Unfortunately. Not by choice, obviously. Darrel wants me to spend the next week in bed. A week! I said I’d take things easier the next couple of days.”

  “Did he accept that?”

  “No, but I was firm.”

  Francis smirked. He had no trouble believing her.

  “I will take it easy,” Ruby continued. “Darrel has proven he’s willing to drug me if he thinks it necessary for my ‘well-being’.”

  “I thought you said you wouldn’t accept medication from him anymore?”

  “I won’t. Doesn’t mean it’ll stop him. Knowing him, he’ll spike our water supply and knock out half the crew to get to me. And how would we function then?”

  Francis laughed.

  Quiet, broken by crackles.

  Then: “I wish you hadn’t gone,” said Ruby.

  Francis felt a stab of sadness. He had the sudden urge to say—

  I miss you.

  “I ought to get going,” Ruby said before he could. “The night-shifters will be in soon.” Sounding not entirely offhanded, she added, “If Brie gets on the radio, I fear you’ll never get to leave that room of yours.”

  Francis chuckled. “How is she?”

  “She’s fine,” said Ruby. She sounded tired now. “She’ll be fine.”

  “Tell her I said hi.”

  “Will do. Speak to you again tomorrow.”

  “All right.”

  “Stay safe, Francis.”

  “Stay safe.”

  The channel closed.

  Francis sat in quiet. The radio lay at his feet, silent.

  A weight seemed to have been dropped in his midsection. It was not the heaviest, but he felt it. Low, and pressing.

  Half-formed thoughts swirled. He could not articulate them. And neither did he want to: each time one began to solidify into something recognisable, something of a language he could comprehend, it brought a feeling of strange discomfort he could not place. And so he swept it away; and eventually, when he could bring himself to move, swept them all away.

  But though he pushed, his sweep took them only an arm’s length from him, and they hung blackly as he got ready for bed and finally climbed in.

  The bed was comfortable, but wrong, and Francis did not sleep for a long time.

  8

  Considering the difficulty Francis had rising at six each morning on the Harbinger, climbing out at five was even harder. If he had not had Remie to knock on his door, he might not have woken at all.

  “Morning,” she said when he answered. She was just as chipper and wakeful as she had been yesterday. “How did you sleep?”

  “Could do with an extra forty winks,” Francis mumbled.

  “Not used to getting up so early, eh? Don’t worry, you’ll be just as lively as the rest of us in no time.”

  Francis did not believe this for a second, but decided not to argue.

  New Calais bustled in the pre-dawn light. Dozens and dozens of people, some of whom Francis was already beginning to recognise, were leaving their dorms and heading for the cathedral. Like Remie, they were perfectly awake, and looked happy to be. Was it only Francis walking in a daze?

  They went up the stairs into the cathedral, and Remie filed Francis into one of the prayer rooms.

  “What do I do?” he asked.

  “We crouch down in these spots here—” she gestured to one of the many grooves formed by paired knees “—and we pray to Ife.”

  “But how? Do I put my hands together? Do I say anything?”

  Remie shook her head. “Prayers are silent.”

  She was already down in her spot, and pulled Francis into his. He jarred his knee, and bit off a grunt of pain. He’d have a nice bruise tomorrow. On the plus side, at least it had served to fight off some of the morning’s fog.

  The room was filling out now. Allison joined, as did Stanley and Katja. Allison waved cheerily to Remie and Francis. Stanley nodded. Katja pulled the smallest of smiles before filing into her own place and kneeling in silence.

  Francis still had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. Did he put his palms together, or keep them on his knees? What about his eyes? Should they be opened? Closed? Should he kneel with his back straight, or bow forward, so his head was tilted toward the floor?

  But the room was almost full, and no one spoke. Francis did not dare break the quiet. The church’s disciples would hear even if he were to whisper. And full of love and understanding though they might be, Francis would not be able to shake his feeling of stupidity.

  Thirty seconds after the room grew still, a bell rang from far above. It chimed just once.

  He glanced left and right. Remie had bowed forward, with her eyes closed. Her hands were neatly folded in her lap. A gangly man, right of Francis, had gone almost entirely rigid. His eyes were screwed shut, and his lips moved in silent murmur.

  Francis decided to imitate Remie. He bowed forward, closing his eyes, and cupping his hands together in his lap. And …

  Now what? Pray? Just how did he do that? Thank you, Ife, for birthing our world? Thank you, Ife, for teaching us how to be kind? Francis hadn’t needed Ife to know how to do that. Besides, he hadn’t even learned anything about her yet. Except for a minimal telling of her history, and the fact that these people idolised the woman, Francis knew nothing about her. Discounting the fact that she had been practically worshipped from birth, Impartations had not shed any light on Ife or her teachings in the thirteen pages he’d struggled through so far.

  Instead of reaching out to Ife with h
is mind, Francis spent the thirty minutes counting down the time, glancing around, and feeling self-conscious. He was glad most people seemed to have their eyes closed. One look and they’d see right through him.

  At long last, another chime signalled the end of the morning’s prayer. Francis was glad to scrabble up with the rest of the room’s disciples. Like personal study, this would be another part of the day Francis failed to look forward to.

  “How was it?” Remie asked when they were back outside. The sun had just kissed the horizon from below, casting a frail band of yellow across the sky.

  “It was, um, good,” Francis lied. “I think I did it right.”

  Remie smiled. “You’ll get it. I know you will.”

  I won’t. But thanks.

  9

  Whereas yesterday had been broken into two distinct halves, today was not.

  “We’re in here all day,” Remie told Francis when they got to the mess hall and its enormous kitchen.

  “All day? How come?”

  “So an unlucky load of people don’t get our washing-up in the afternoon,” Remie said. “Let’s see how you do with cooking!”

  Compared to the loom, personal studying, and prayer, Francis was much better. He needed no instruction, and took the task in hand happily. In a way, it was like being back on the ship.

  As he intended with Vala, he would need to thank Sam for all his help when he got back to the Harbinger.

  10

  And so the week passed. On day three, Francis spent the morning washing, drying, and folding more clothes than he could count. After lunch, Remie took him on a trip up the bell tower.

  Each afternoon, an hour-long song rung out across New Calais. Francis had heard it during his excursion into the city with Reuben, Vala, and Stefan. He’d caught snatches the past two afternoons too, but only briefly: he had been inside, in busy environments, when they chimed.

  Beneath the behemoth bells, he had no trouble hearing.

  The fourth day was a repeat of the first. Still, Francis struggled with the loom. He did, however, make progress—even if at a snail’s pace.