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


Six.


Francois was up on deck the next morning. “Feeling better, Bosun?” Ensign Timuríde asked, the tiger gesturing for the lemur to stand easy.

“When I finally got to sleep, Soor, yes,” Francois replied. A mug of steaming coffee sat on the rail beside him.

“Trouble?”

Francois shook his head. “I sleep on that shoulder,” he explained. “Took a while to get comfortable,” and he smiled as the tiger grinned. “How are you, Soor?”

Jahan’s smile fled. “I’m troubled, Bosun. Captain de Ville told me that there had been rumors that the Empire planned on taking the Maldives from France, but until I saw it with my own eyes, I scarcely believed it. And,” he said with a pensive sigh, “I have to wonder which of my brothers decided to do it.”

The lemur picked up his mug and took a swallow of the contents. “So,” he asked carefully, “what do you think?”

The tiger frowned. “My oldest brother, Zahar . . . I never really knew much about him. He was ten years older than me, you see. Always out with the army.” His whiskers and tail twitched. “Mahmud was, hm, four years younger than Zahar. Always had his nose in a book.” Jahan sighed. “If you had asked me five years ago, I would have said Zahar was behind this. But this war’s gone on for five years.” He shook his head and squared his shoulders. “It could be either of them, and that’s maddening.”

Francois cocked an eye at him over the rim of his mug. “Makes you want to go there to see what’s going on, eh? Maybe try to take the throne yourself?”

Jahan’s ears went back. “I don’t think I would recognize the place,” the tiger said, “and I was the youngest son – no one alive would likely recognize me or my claim.”

“Begging your pardon, Soor, but I have noticed that you haven’t been exactly eager to go back to Delhi,” Francois said with a deadpan expression.

Jahan chuckled. “Having to kill someone sent by my brother to abduct or kill me did make me reluctant, yes,” he said quietly. He paused to acknowledge a working party as they moved past him and the red-ruffed lemur. “I’ve made my way here, as part of the crew. I have you to thank for a lot of that.” He smiled. “You wanted to throw me over the rail when I first came aboard.”

The lemur nodded. “I would have, yes, and cheerfully too, but the Captain wanted you aboard.” Francois sighed. “He was a good fellow, Captain de Ville was.”

“Yes,” the tiger said. “He was a good man.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

“Ensign?” The tiger and lemur both saluted as the warship’s acting captain walked over to them. “Stand easy, please. Bosun, are you feeling better?”

“I should ask you the same, Soor,” Francois said.

“Heh, yes.” The feline’s head and the stump of his arm were still bandaged, and despite a good night’s sleep he still looked weary. “We’re all banged up, from the ship on down. However, I’ve received a message from the Governor. They’ve captured some survivors off the one Mughal ship that sank. They’ve got quite a few people who speak the coastal dialects, but they’re asking for anyone who speaks Hindi to come and have a chat with their officers.” He looked pointedly at Jahan.

The tiger’s ears flicked. “Of course, Sir, I’d be happy to help.”

“You seem a little uncertain, Mr. Timuríde.”

“I’d prefer to have someone watching my back, Sir.”

Espinoza’s tail swished as he looked nonplussed for a moment.

Francois cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Soor, but Doctor Mirabeau hasn’t put me back on duty yet. Watching the Ensign’s back for him would give me something to do.”

Espinoza glanced at Jahan, who said, “I’d be grateful for Bosun Ntsay’s company, Sir.”

The feline nodded. “Very well. Get going, then.”


***


Two soldiers met the lemur and the tiger at the foot of the gangplank and escorted them to one of the island’s fortresses. One of them fell in alongside Francois and asked, “Think they’ll come back?”

Francois shrugged and gave the man a toothy grin. “If they do, they’ll get a warmer welcome,” and the pair of them shared a laugh as the fortress loomed up in front of them.

The fortress was several decades old, with the seaward walls sloped in hopes that they would deflect shot and shell. The stones had bleached in the tropical sun, with small tufts of grass in some of the cracks between the blocks. Long snouts of anti-airship cannon poked skyward from fortified areas on top of the walls.

Several provost guards were on the gate, and after the tiger and the lemur were identified one guard escorted them to the marshal’s office. Their route took them past several cells bearing Mughal prisoners, their uniforms somewhat the worse for wear after their impromptu swim in salt water. The air smelled damp from the fort’s construction and its closeness to the sea, and fetid from open slop buckets.

The prisoners were largely made up of civets and dholes, with one or two leopards sporting noncommissioned rank insignia on their uniforms. Some looked defiant, others curious, while all of them looked tired.

Two armed soldiers flanked the marshal’s office, and they saluted Jahan before opening the door. They closed it behind the tiger and Francois as they walked in.

The marshal of the fortress was a feline with a predominantly black coat and white fur on his paws and the tip of his tail. He stood and nodded at the young officer. “Hello, Ensign.” He gestured to his right, where two soldiers flanked a manacled tiger. “He refuses to speak anything but Hindi.”

The prisoner was wearing a uniform with his officer’s insignia cut away. He’d been augmented with a segmented polished steel tail inlaid with gold wire and a matching lens system replacing his right eye. He blinked and his real eye widened about a fraction of a second before Jahan recognized him.

“U-Uncle?” Jahan asked in Hindi.

The older man blinked before his shoulders sagged. “Nephew,” Muhammad Agha bin Bahadur said in the same language, before his ears went back and he lowered his head in shame.




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