The First Sea Lord was not pleased, not pleased at all. A safety valve had misbehaved, and the thump-drag of His Lordship's wooden leg on the polished quarterdeck had grown ever more irregular during the ensuing half-hour. Tension had risen to such an extent that, when the full-pressure whistle finally sounded, the second mate so far forgot himself as to loose an audible sigh.

 

"Belay that!" snapped the captain. "All ahead full!"

 

The order was telegraphed to the boiler room belowdecks, and the ship lurched forward, approaching the target area at high speed.

 

"Crews to your guns!" His lieutenant inserted the appropriate wooden card into the slot and pulled the lever to engage it. Instantly fifty-six wooden sailors dashed to their cannons, their white paint flashing in the sun.

 

"Open ports! Out tompions! Prime the guns!" As each order was given, the lieutenant placed the proper card into the slot, and the steam-powered automatons raced to obey.

 

"Target one off the starboard bow," announced the lookout. The second mate relayed this to the captain.

 

"Starboard guns, fore to aft: Fire as they bear!"

 

This wasn't quite according to drill, but the lieutenant was up to his task and fed cards in the correct order, first instructing the guns be laid forward, then aimed, and finally to fire when ready.

 

This was when the brilliance of the designers came into its own. Atop the bodies of each gun captain was a polished sphere of crystal, within which a clockwork Babbage engine of cut glass whirred and clicked and spun. Through some strange alchemy, the artificial brain could identify an enemy and target it automatically. As each gunsight aligned, the machinery performed complex ballistic calculations involving muzzle velocity, windspeed, and the motion of the waves, and when the probability of a hit was the highest it fired the cannon.

 

The bow gun shot first; the round ball sailed just over the target, missing by mere feet. The second splashed just a bit short, skipping a hair over the floating casks. The third struck the target raft true, sending splinters into the sky, and each succeeding gun followed suit, wreaking havoc among the wreckage in a deadly rolling broadside.

 

As each cannon fired, the crew followed the rote exercise of sponging the barrel, reloading, rolling it up to the porthole, priming, and making ready for the next volley. This was not slow in coming. Soon after the last gun had fired, the next target came into range. The exercise repeated itself, though this time it was the second gun that hit. On the third target, the bow gun itself scored. The order came for the ship to go about, and the starboard broadside entered play.

 

It wasn't until after the start of the fifth volley that His Lordship finally realized what it is that had troubled him.

 

"They're not cheering!" he said aloud.

 

This caught the captain off guard, as might a sudden unexpected headwind. "Naturally not, sir, being mechanical," he said, rather taken aback.

 

"Well, it's unnatural, that's what I say. A hit is scored; there ought to be a cheer." His Lordship scratched gently beneath his eyepatch with his steel hook, prompting an uncharitable surmise in the mind of the captain which, fortunately, never reached his face.

 

"Discipline," responded the captain after a moment's furious thought. The port guns began to sound rhythmically as the sixth and last target was reduced to splinters. "The men boom will be boom permittboomed a cheer boom once the exboomercise is boom finished boom."

 

A cheer was duly ordered and engaged in by all eleven humans on deck with great enthusiasm. The wooden sailors saluted the quarterdeck in unison, then set about reloading and stowing the long guns.

 

The First Sea Lord scowled fiercely and began pacing again.

 

* * *

 

"I tell you, Captain, it's not natural."

 

They were seated below in the relative coolness of the great cabin discussing the test as the craft steamed toward port.

 

With what he mistakenly thought was great delicacy, the captain said, "Well, no, sir, they're not supposed to be natural. That's the whole point. Since Parliament outlawed press gangs—"

 

"Yes, yes. I know the argument," snapped His Lordship. "Even with these new steam engines, we can't man the fleet. But damn it all, man! These machines have no fighting spirit, no independence, no... no heart! None of the qualities that made the Royal Navy the pride of the Empire!"

 

He scowled and sipped his wine. The captain kept his face carefully blank.

 

His Lordship shook his head. "No," he said. "I cannot wear it. Parliament will have to be taken in hand and forced to repeal that law; that's all. End of discussion."

 

Suddenly he relaxed, grinning at the captain. "I shouldn't worry, though. This steam engine is a marvelous invention. Sailing against wind and tide, then raising the sails again whenever it suits! You'll not suffer from my report. Now, come, drink with me! I've a long weary trip back to Headquarters and I need fortification!"

 

* * *

 

It was two hours before they anchored in port. His Lordship, still remarkably steady despite a considerable load of burgundy, saluted the ship from his barge as they set off toward shore. The wooden sailors snapped to attention along the rails, saluting in return.

 

"Too bad about the test, sir," ventured the lieutenant.

 

"No. The test went perfectly," the captain replied. "It's too bad about some officers." He sighed, then straightened. "Pipe the hands to dinner, then come aft and we'll work out that watch schedule."

 

The lieutenant lingered a moment, looking after the small boat that even now was halfway to shore. Then he too went below.

 

The wooden gun captains still stood at attention on the side rail, staring at the First Sea Lord's skiff. One turned to another, its clockwork brain clicking away.

 

The pattern of clicks was heard and recognized by its fellow, then passed on to the rest of the brightly painted crew.

 

THREAT SIGHTED...