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


One.



The ocean just off the northern tip of Madagascar was fairly choppy, with the currents usually holding an abundance of fish. Boats of varying sizes were out to reap the harvest, and a group of civets clad only in loincloths took their eyes away from the nets around their own boat as a sloop flew overhead, its engines directing a cooling downward breeze on the natives as it flew toward the coast and over the ridge to the harbor.

A couple of the civets waved as the ship flew past.

Antsiranana was an advance base for the Imperial French Navy’s Indian Ocean Squadron. Larger than the port at Malè in the Maldives, Antsiranana held docking facilities and support for first-rate ships of the line. Six such ships swung at anchor in the harbor with pride of place given to the flagship l’Empereur. The hundred-gun ship sat placidly amid her sisters as the crew maintained its rigging and engines under a cloudy sky that promised rain later in the day.

A small steam-powered lighter chugged its way past the bigger ships, headed for the larger number of second- and third-rate ships with a cargo of mail and some furs who had taken advantage of the port to go home and visit their families, and were now returning to duty.

France’s overseas navy included a large number of native recruits. One of them, an older red-ruffed lemur, steadied himself against the steamer’s gunwale as it neared the sheer sides of the third-rate Temeraire. The man wore the Navy’s blue uniform, with the insignia of a senior boatswain’s mate, and his canvas seabag sat at his feet.

Francois Ntsay had enjoyed his time ashore, visiting with his family and renewing acquaintances with old friends, but his leave was almost over and it was time to return to his ship.

A junior boatswain leaned over the port rail and waved. “Francois! Good to see you!”

“Good to be back,” the lemur assured the canine as the steamer cut its engine, rolling in the swells as deckpaws eased the lighter alongside near the Temeraire’s boarding ladder. Ntsay swung the strap of his sea bag across his shoulders and clambered up the ladder where the Officer of the Watch waited.

The lemur saluted the Imperial tricolor hanging at the stern before saluting the officer. “Boatswain Ntsay reporting,” he said in accented French. “Permission to come aboard.”

The ensign, a tiger, returned the salute. “Permission granted. Welcome aboard, Bosun.”

“Thank you, Mr. Timuríde.” The tiger was a refugee of sorts. Five years ago, he’d been Mirza Jahan bin Jahan, the youngest son of the Mughal Emperor. The death of the Emperor and the resulting succession struggle between his two older brothers had prompted Jahan’s uncle to deliver him to the Temeraire. Wanting something to do, he’d entered naval service as a midshipman.

Saint Joan, Ntsay thought, has it been five years? The young tiger was now taller than the lemur and far surer of himself than he’d been when he’d puked the first time he’d gone up into the rigging. He still carried himself like the Mughal prince he was, but with the professional mien of a young naval officer added to it.

When he’d first come aboard, he’d spoken passable French; the tiger was now sufficiently fluent in it to swear with a sailor’s command of invective. He’d also somehow become conversant in Ntsay’s native tongue, Malagasy, at least well enough that he could tell if some rating was insulting him in earshot.

Ntsay chuckled while he went below. That was a very memorable incident. He still wasn’t sure who had been the most surprised by the tiger’s angry outburst, the rating it was directed at, or Ntsay himself.

Still, seeing the tiger suddenly made him feel old somehow.

Once below, he emptied his bag and stowed the contents with his other belongings before getting into his working uniform and gear. Earphones, throat microphone, uniform with goggles, and he connected them to the control bracer on his left forearm. He walked over to the charging station, selected a full battery, and plugged it into the apparatus he wore before securing the battery to his belt. He fitted the goggles over his eyes and closed his eyes as he touched a button on the bracer.

When he reopened his eyes the view showed the quarterdeck of the warship, looking forward past her masts. Lines and symbols were superimposed on the image, and a list appeared as he manipulated the controls. The ship’s engines were idling, supplying the generators for lights and other amenities; the ship’s sixty main guns and the St. Elmo Field were currently quiescent. A quick check of the personnel roster showed that two more ratings had yet to come aboard.

Time to report to the Captain.

Francois waved to a few of the other senior petty officers before going above and heading to the quarterdeck where the ship’s commander sat on a camp stool by the aft rail.

He stopped in front of the French bulldog and saluted. “Bosun Ntsay, Soor,” he said crisply.

Armand de Ville smiled as he returned the salute. “Good to see you, Bosun. Had a good leave?”

“Yes, Soor.”

“How many still ashore?”

“Two, Soor – “ He paused as the lists projected in midair updated “ – they’ve just returned, Soor.”

“Very well. We have orders,” and the lemur stepped back as the Captain got to his feet. De Ville nodded to the First Officer and said, “Signal the rest of the flotilla and rig the ship for flight.”

“Yes, Sir,” the feline said, and began relaying orders as Francois headed forward to superintend the procedure.

Crewmembers raced to their stations as the anchor was raised and the engines were run up to full power. Power was transferred to the rotors at each quarter, raising great gouts of spray as the ship fought against the water’s grip on the hull. Finally the ship won out and His Catholic Majesty’s Airship Temeraire lifted clear of its berth, gaining altitude and rotors angling as the ship headed toward the harbor mouth. Behind it, two more third-rates and a pair of smaller frigates lifted clear.

In Francois’ goggles, the lookouts and lenses on the ship showed him the ship’s speed, altitude and heading, as well as everything else for at least twelve kilometers around. He could even see the ground and the sea beneath his feet.

He shook off the feeling of omniscience and started watching the crew as they went about their tasks. He was the senior boatswain’s mate, and he had to know everyone’s jobs.

The red-ruffed lemur sensed someone coming up behind him, and he turned and saluted as Ensign Timuríde came up to him. “Off again,” the tiger said, his striped tail whisking back and forth.

“Yes, Soor, off again,” Francois replied.

The Mughal tiger nodded, his paws clasped behind his back as he expertly altered his stance in response to every motion the ship made. “But where are we going, do you think?”

Francois glanced up to meet Jahan’s eyes. “You’ll know far sooner than I will, Soor.”

“Probably,” Jahan said. “In the great scheme of things, Bosun, I fear I’m closer to you than I am to the Captain.”

Francois couldn’t help chuckling. “With respect, that was probably when you were a midshipman.”

With a slight smile, the tiger shrugged and rocked his head from side to side. “We will likely hear from Captain de Ville before too long. He’s very good about informing the crew.”

Ntsay nodded, looking momentarily past the junior officer. A few hundred meters to port, another third-rate kept station with the Temeraire. The two frigates were out of sight ahead of the rest of the formation, but his visor could give him their locations.




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