Sky Above, Sea Below
A Capital Ship sequel
© 2025 by Walter Reimer

Two.



The formation crossed the coast, headed northeast, at a moderate cruising speed. While the ships could go faster their range would be shortened, and the flotilla had no tankers following them.

The display Francois was watching suddenly flashed red and a whistle was heard in his earphones. “Lookouts,” came the First Officer’s voice in his headphones, “stay sharp. Senior officers will lay to the Captain’s office for briefing.” The lemur switched his goggles so he could see what the lookouts and helm were seeing.

Ensign Timuríde had gone to his station on the quarterdeck. Since he wasn’t a senior officer, his place was on deck, as was proper. The small retinue of midshipmen aboard looked to him for guidance, and once again Francois had to stamp down on the feeling that time was creeping up on him.

An hour or so later the First Officer and the Captain came out on deck, the bulldog and the feline looking quite deliberately nonchalant, but a series of enciphered messages were being sent up the signal hoists for the other ships’ officers to read. Francois wasn’t fooled by de Ville’s outward calm; Something must be up, he thought, because why else would a flotilla be out, and the Fleet at Antsiranana?

He kept his thoughts to himself. If the officers wanted to tell him anything, they would. Still, he could make a few guesses, and their heading would take them to the Maldives in a little under three days at full speed. The Empire had a base at Malé.

And the Maldives were close to India.

He glanced aft and saw Ensign Timuríde talking to the Captain and the First Officer. The tiger’s tail was hanging slack and his ears were canted toward de Ville, who seemed to be doing all the talking. The red-ruffed lemur shook his head and started walking the deck, keeping an eye on the new ratings to ensure that the additions to the crew were wearing the required safety harnesses. It’d look very bad if someone went overboard, especially since the ship was two hundred meters above the ocean.

Ensign Timuríde’s two older brothers had been at each other’s throats ever since the old Emperor had stopped breathing, and what news had filtered out through the British in Calcutta and the Portuguese in Goa spoke of shifting alliances and bloody battles.

No matter the nation, sailors in port liked to talk when the drink began to flow, and Francois had always prided himself on keeping his ears open.

He recalled a courtesy stop the Temeraire had made to Lourenço Marques in Mozambique earlier in the year, as part of the escort for the Viceroy. One Portuguese boatswain, in his cups, had told Francois that Goa had been under siege for several months, being resupplied at irregular times by sea as no supplies were coming across the border. The feline had been evasive about some of the details, but Francois had reported it anyway.

The lemur adjusted a small dial on his control bracer. “Guns, this is Ntsay.”

There was a pause before the senior gunner, Ratsiraka, replied, “Guns here.”

“Status.”

“Magazines loaded, guns are ready.” The ship carried sixty Franklin-Lavoisier electrocarronades, each capable of throwing a ten-kilogram charge nearly five hundred meters. “We expecting action, Bosun?”

“Not yet,” Francois said, “but look sharp.”

“Right.” The connection broken, Francois resumed walking around the deck, occasionally squinting up at the masts and rigging to see if there was anything out of place. Nothing was, but it was his job to look for anything amiss and take immediate steps to get it fixed.

He went below for his evening meal, oversaw the change of watch, and went to his bunk, still thinking.

The next day passed without incident, although the flotilla stayed airborne. A few of the engineering ratings were heard echoing the Chief Engineer’s grumblings about the stresses on the ship, but so far there was no danger of the Temeraire falling out of the sky. The lookouts’ telephoto lenses had sighted the southern end of the Maldives.

Captain de Ville was clearly keeping his own counsel, but after one message, the three third-rates had reduced speed while the two frigates increased theirs. The two smaller ships also increased their altitude while moving ahead of the formation to act as scouts.

“What do you think, Bosun?” one senior rating asked Francois just before noon. “The British, maybe?”

The red-ruffed lemur fixed the canine with his gaze. “’The British, maybe’ what?”

“Well,” and the hound shuffled his feet uncertainly before saying, “look here, Bosun, we normally patrol alone, you know? And we don’t usually go this fast by air unless we’re going to show someone the hot ends of our guns.”

Francois gave the man a sour look. The canine had served aboard the Temeraire almost as long as he had, long enough to have suspicions about what was going on.

To be fair, Francois was having the same misgivings.

He leaned over the rail, his tail beckoning the rating to stand beside him. Looking out at the sky he asked quietly, “You hearing this a lot?”

“Yeah. Malé’s close enough to India for them to take an interest, and the British are their friends.” The hound shrugged. “Just nervous, I guess.”

Francois nodded. “Being nervous helps sometimes, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I think the Captain will let us know if something’s going to need us to run the guns out.” The lemur leaned back, easing a crick in his spine, and he pointed up at the rigging. “Everything in shape up there?”

“Came down the mainmast ratlines a few minutes ago,” the canine said. “Everything was in order.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way, eh?” The hound and the red-ruffed lemur shared a laugh before going their separate ways.

Ntsay went forward and was checking the bowsprit rigging when a tone sounded in his earphones. “Bosun, crow’s nest,” the lookout said.

The lemur fingered his throat microphone. “Go ahead.”

“Bat approaching, two kilometers off the port quarter.”

“Very well.” He touched a switch on his forearm. “First Officer, Soor, Bosun Ntsay here.”

“Yes, Bosun?”

“Lookout reporting a bat approaching, two kilometers, port quarter.”

“Very well,” the ship’s second-in-command said. “Come aft and rig for capture. I’ll inform the Captain.”

“Aye, Soor.” Francois relayed the order to the deck division and went back to the quarterdeck.



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