“Overloading our batteries is dangerous. It’s to be done in extreme circumstances only.”
“These are extreme circumstances.”
“The ship isn’t designed to cope with that sort of load! We could fry half our systems!”
“So?”
“So, it might take weeks to fix, if at all! We might need a new ship, or—”
Ruby pressed her face close to Natasha’s. Her eyes flamed. “I don’t care,” she said. “Nothing is more important than him.” She eased back. “Amelie. Wren. Overload our batteries. That’s an order. Stefan, Owen; be ready to switch to our back-ups. Keep them isolated; I don’t want power spikes shorting them out too.”
“Aye.”
“Sia, Brie; monitor our systems. Anything looks like it’s about to fold, shut it down.”
“Aye.”
The room was tense. Ruby looked to Natasha. She waited for an argument.
None came.
“Okay then,” she muttered. “Do it.”
2
Francis’s head was like a lead weight.
Just how many times had he been struck?
The thickset man—Hanratty—dragged him. His feet struggled to keep up. He could not quite make them.
He’d been brought back up the spiral stairs, out of the cathedral. Twice he’d slipped on blood. It poured from his nose in a hot river. Broken again? The white hot pain certainly felt like it.
Hanratty dragged him across New Calais. Claret fell in dark spatters at Francis’s feet. More still soaked his shirt. The night was black, but his blood was blacker.
A plain building loomed. Hanratty shoved Francis through the door. Metal stairs led down. Francis had been sure Hanratty would just toss him, but he did not.
A short corridor stretched, lit by grimy tube lights. Across the walls were—cells?
“You’ve got a prison?” Francis burbled. “Why would you have a prison?”
Hanratty twisted his arm. “We’ll ask the questions, boyo.”
He headed for the middle cell on the right-hand side. One hand unlocked it, and he slid the barred door open with a heavy metal clank. He thrust Francis inside.
Francis landed on his knees. He cried. Explosive pain shot through them. Crimson showered from his throbbing nose.
The cell door clanged shut.
Hanratty leered through the bars.
Francis spat. He wiped his face tenderly. His shirtsleeve came away smeared in blood.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Hanratty said. “There’s more to come.”
Francis gritted teeth. Dark red outlines grew between them. “Well, ain’t that nice.”
“You don’t want to get lippy, boyo.”
Francis drew himself up. God, it hurt. “And why’s that?” he asked, voice haggard.
Hanratty reached into his belt.
A gun. It pointed right at Francis’s face.
“Because of this.”
Francis was silent.
Hanratty smiled. “Thought as much.”
He relished his hold of the pistol a long moment, then tucked it away again.
The door to the outside opened and closed. Steps came on the metal stairs.
A moment later, another man had appeared. Smaller than Hanratty, he carried a rucksack—a rucksack Francis recognised with a pang of regret.
Damn it.
“This is it,” the man said.
Hanratty took it. “Big man on the way?”
“Said he was.”
“Good.” He looked to Francis. His face split in a grin. “Antsy yet?”
Francis didn’t say anything.
Hanratty unbuckled the rucksack. He pulled out the radio. “I see how you’ve been making your little calls. Oh, and—what’s this?” In went his hand again, and out came … the handgun. He appraised it. “Cute toy. You want it, Baterman?”
The other man took it. He worked it over with an expert hand, checking the safety worked, weighting it in his grip, aiming down the sights. Appraisal an apparent success, he tucked it into his belt.
The door went again. Footsteps on the stairs.
Hanratty and Baterman glanced their way.
“You’re in trouble now, boyo.”
Two figures came down the corridor. One: a man with a head of white hair, and rheumy yellow eyes. Cold calculation filled his face.
Beside, ever-present: Grace. Barefoot. Her eyes were wide. They only widened on seeing bloodied Francis.
“Well, well,” said Abraham. “We have a rat.”
3
The Harbinger shook.
As every bit of power was forced out of the batteries, the entire ship rumbled. The lights grew terrifyingly bright. Screens flickered; Brie and Wren both yelled as their console displays fragmented, strobing with corrupt streams of text. Their hands flashed to regain control.
The air whined as the Harbinger accelerated, faster and faster; as its miles of cables buzzed with more power than they ever ought to ferry …
There was a low pop from somewhere below. The lights went off.
“Primary batteries just blew out,” said Amelie.
“Switching to back-ups,” said Stefan. A moment later: “Back-ups online.”
The lights came back. They were slow, not jumping to light from darkness, but fading up.
“System report?” said Ruby to Brie and Sia.
“Condensers are offline,” said Sia. “Working on getting them up now.”
“Schematics show failures in numerous locations along the ship,” said Brie.
“Bring it up on screen.”
The main display cycled onto the Harbinger’s schematic.
‘Numerous’ was an understatement. Red flashed all over the ship. An entire bank of fins, on the Harbinger’s starboard side, were black. They were gone entirely. Likewise, the recycler had given out, plus four of the smaller cannons. The central cannon, running the Harbinger’s length, pulsed dangerously.
Natasha gaped. “The whole ship is fucked.”
“Can we fix it?” Ruby asked.
“Working on getting a skeleton of systems online as we speak, Captain,” said Sia. Beside her, Brie nodded. Her fingers were already flying through code.
“How’s our time?” Ruby asked Amelie.
“New estimates put us two hours, fifteen minutes out.”
Ruby nodded. She had more than halved their time. The ship had paid dearly for the effort—but it would not be for nothing. She mentally promised Francis that. The damage would be worth it.
“Can we navigate on one bank of fins?” she asked Natasha.
“I’d liken it to stumbling rather than navigation,” Natasha said. “But yes. And our ventral fin is still functioning, which helps. It—Ruby? Ruby?”
Ruby did not hear. A sudden wave of nausea swept her. Her eyes lost focus, rolled up. She staggered—
Natasha and Mikhail sprang to catch her before she hit the floor.
4
Francis looked into the faces of his captors. Abraham, hard. Hanratty, face alight. And Baterman—Baterman, who Francis now recognised. He had seen him little more than a week ago. It had been on Knot, the morning he’d exchanged a wave with Grace.
All at once, Francis understood.
“You set me up,” he said heavily.
For all the kindness Abraham had shown, he bore none of it now.
“You almost flew under my radar, Francis,” he said. “You were good. Very good. But Baterman detected your transmissions. And we only had to listen in once to know exactly what it was you were doing here, and what you’d come for.”
“You’ve been spying on me?”
“Preaching to us about morals? When you came here to steal from us? After all the good we do?”
“You stole first.”
“The shroud belongs to us,” Abraham hissed. “It is ours. Researchers have no business with the relics of our ancestor.”
“Fine,” Francis heaved. “You got me. Now what?”
/> Hanratty lifted the radio. “Now, Francis, you’re going to make a little call to your people. You’re going to tell them that you went looking for that shroud, and that the coast is clear. Tell them they’re free to come get it.” Cruel smirk lifting his lips, he said, “You can even tell them where to find it.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to shoot you. And then I’ll shoot everyone on that ship of yours. Including—Ruby, is it?”
Francis gritted his teeth. “Shut up.”
Hanratty’s grin flared. “Touched a nerve?”
Silence. On one side of the bars, Francis. His breath came haggard. On the other: Abraham, Hanratty, Baterman. All hard. Forgotten, Grace. Her lip quivered.
Automatically, Abraham laid a hand on her back.
It did nothing to quell her fear.
“Make the call, Francis,” said Hanratty.
“No.”
The grin fell. “What?” he growled.
“No.” Francis drew himself up. Taking a deep, steely breath, he looked his captors in the eye, one by one. “I’ve listened to your stories for three weeks. Now I want you to listen to one of mine.
“Nine months ago, I was kidnapped. Ruby saved me—only I didn’t realise it at the time. And the man who kidnapped me? He sent assassins to find her. A whole team. One night, one of them landed on our ship. He held me at gunpoint, and made me lead him to her. And do you know what?”
Hanratty’s lip curled. “What?”
“I did it,” Francis said. “So I know exactly what it feels like to be used as a pawn to get to someone.” He spat blood. “I won’t do it again. I will not endanger my friends.”
Hanratty sneered. His eyes danced with rage.
Finally: “Fine.” He dumped the radio back into Francis’s rucksack, and dropped it on the floor. He kicked it away, then reached for his belt. “Then I’ll just have to shoot you.”
“No,” said Abraham. He held up a hand.
“What? Why? If he’s no good to us—”
“He will be. Those people on that ship will call him again soon. When they do, no one is going to answer. And when no one answers, they’ll come.” Turning cold eyes onto Francis, Abraham finished, “And then he’ll be bait.”
“Will I,” Francis growled.
“Yes,” said Abraham. “You will. Now,” he said to Hanratty and Baterman, “come. Francis needs some time to think.”
Hanratty stowed his pistol, looking none too happy about it. Gripping the bars and pressing his face close through them, he said, “Enjoy your lifeline while it lasts, boyo.”
Francis grinned his best bloody grin.
Hanratty’s smirk faltered.
But he could do nothing, so after a long glare, he followed behind Abraham and Baterman.
Grace remained a second. She cast fearful eyes at Francis. He did not know whether to look apologetic or not.
Abraham called, “Grace,” and she trotted after him.
They went up the stairs, opened and closed the door … and Francis was alone.
Rescue Mission
(Chapter Twelve)
1
“Something’s wrong.”
That voice was Natasha.
The world swam.
Ruby pressed up.
Something stabbed behind her eyes.
Too much colour. The entire world had too much colour.
Everything hurt.
She lurched up from the hospital bed. “I’m fine.”
Darrel: “Miss Celeste—”
“You’re not fine,” Natasha cried. “You passed out four times. And unless you want to try for a fifth—”
“I’m fine,” Ruby forced.
It was a lie, and desperate though her wish, no one in the room saw through it.
The last two hours had been manic. Ruby had collapsed in the Harbinger’s command centre. Mikhail had hefted her up and brought her to Darrel. Since then she had slipped in and out of consciousness, swept by nausea. Her head roared with pain. At first it had been a headache. Now, pale and papery, slicked with sweat, it was a migraine.
“Take me back.”
“Miss Celeste, I will not allow this!” Darrel protested.
“Thanks, Darrel, but you’re not the boss of me. Natasha, let’s g—”
Another horrid wave of sickness spilled across her. Her legs jellified. She swayed, and narrowly avoided crashing headlong into the floor. Only at the last moment did her hands grip the edge of the next bed and keep her up.
“Ruby!” said Natasha.
“I’m fine!”
“You’re not fine! Something is wrong! You’re sick—”
“I don’t care,” Ruby cried. She wrenched open heavy eyes. “I couldn’t care less. I know we’ve arrived. Now I want to go back to the command centre. Put together an entourage if it makes you feel better, but I’m going up there whether you like it or not.”
Natasha would fight. She would. As would Darrel. Ruby knew them too well to think otherwise.
But apparently something in her voice deterred them, for after exchanging a dark look with Darrel, Natasha said, “Fine. I’ll take you. Just hold my arm tight, okay? I’d rather not have to explain to the crew you took another fall and brained yourself.”
2
Noise from the Harbinger’s control room met Ruby’s ears before she got there. It hurt, and she screwed up her face.
“You ought to have stayed in the medical bay,” Darrel griped.
“You ought to shut up,” Ruby hissed back. “You’ll give me an aneurysm before long.”
“At least it would get you off your feet.”
Ruby was too busy wincing at the pain in her ears to respond.
The moment she and Natasha stepped through, followed briskly by Trove and Darrel, technicians began to spew reports.
Ruby held up a hand. “Be quiet,” she said. Good God, why was just doing that so painful? What was happening to her? “All I want to know is whether or not we can make a quick escape if we need to.”
“We should be able to,” said Sia. “We’ve restored rudimentary function to our starboard fins, too, so navigation poses less of a problem. It’s not quite there, but it’s the best we can do at short notice.”
“And our other systems?”
“Working on it.”
“Are we going to get Francis?” Brie asked.
“Yes, we’re going to get him,” Ruby grunted. Her legs wobbled. Bracing against another stab—it was like a spike driven through her head from temple to temple—she gritted her teeth, breathing hard.
“Give her a chair,” said Natasha.
Someone moved. Ruby did not know who. Natasha guided her over, and placed her carefully down.
“You should be back down—” Darrel started.
“Where are the workhands?” Ruby asked. She could barely open her eyes now.
“I’m here,” said Mikhail. “Reuben, Glim, and Herschel have been on standby since we were notified of our spy problem.”
“I need you to find Francis.”
Unseen, Mikhail nodded. “Any idea where to look?”
“He said he’s housed near the cathedral,” Ruby said. “Somewhere close. But whether or not he’s actually there …” She grimaced at another bolt of pain. Wiping sweat from her brow, she prised her eyelids apart. “It’s the best I’ve got.”
“Did Francis take his communicator with him when he went into the city?” Sia asked.
Ruby exchanged a look with Natasha.
“I think so,” Natasha said.
“Then I might be able to do you one better.” Sia rose from her console. “I can show you how to triangulate its location. You’ll be able to pinpoint it precisely, and go right to it.”
Brie: “Miss Celeste—”
“That sounds like it might be handy,” said Mikhail.
“Do it,” Ruby told Sia with a nod.
While Sia instructed Mikhail, Ruby told Trove to call in t
he rest of the workhands.
They arrived less than thirty seconds later. In spite of the hour, all were wide awake and ready for action.
“I hear we’re going on a rescue mission,” said Reuben.
“Yes, you are,” said Ruby. She told them they would need to triangulate the location of Francis’s communicator; Mikhail would inform them of how to do this. If Francis was with it, great. If not, they’d fan out and commence a search.
“Find him,” she said.
Brie: “Miss Celeste—”
“What about the shroud?” Glim asked.
“Forget it. Francis is our only concern.”
Sia had just finished running Mikhail through the paces. Now he was done, Mikhail exchanged a nod with his team, then said to Ruby, “We taking guns?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re taking guns.”
Again, Brie bleated, “Miss Celeste, can I—?”
“No, Brie,” Ruby said. The words came harder than she meant. The force drove another stab of pain through her head, and she clenched her teeth and closed her eyes. Good thing, or she would have seen the dark look crossing Brie’s face.
“Go,” she said when the pain had passed. “Now.”
They did not need telling twice. “On our way.”
“What about the rest of us?” asked Natasha.
“I need you to—to—to …”
There was no more. A wave of numb fog surged in. Ruby’s grip slipped—her eyes drifted; her mouth fell, slack—and then, unbeknownst to her, Natasha and Trove darted to grab her before she fell sideways and hit the deck.
3
Francis sat against the back wall of his cell. Sometime, his nose had stopped bleeding. It still glowed with white pain, but even that had begun to diminish. He wasn’t sure whether the all-encompassing roar was better, or the focussed sting he felt now, intensifying with every nasty throb of his heart.
It was a mess. He was a mess. He hated to think of the field day Darrel would have when he got out of here.
If he got out of here.
How long had he been locked up? Four, five hours, he’d guess—but that was surely too long. Didn’t time lengthen at moments like these?
The door creaked open. Francis cast it a cursory glance without moving. No doubt his new friends had returned.
The Ruby Celeste Series - Box Set, books 1 - 3: Ghost Armada, Dire Kraken, and Church of Ife Page 59