Two months later.
I was accepting command of a ship that had only just been launched.
Of course, it wouldn't be heading out on a deep-sea deployment anytime soon—the cruiser still had sea trials ahead, gunnery exercises, and the inevitable process of rooting out various "teething problems." I had no desire to end up stranded in the middle of the ocean because the steam engine died, or to discover a jammed trebuchet or ballista mechanism in the middle of battle.
But none of that mattered.
I stood there, looking at my ship—and couldn't take my eyes off it.
Those two months at the navigation school had been quite the "pleasure." While I'd grasped the engineering side and the power plant almost immediately (a boiler is a boiler, even in another world; I could probably even try to slip in a few ideas and improvements), actual seamanship had proved a far tougher nut to crack.
No matter how you slice it, two months is nowhere near enough time to teach someone how to navigate by the stars (even though compasses existed here, situations varied, and the skill hadn't fallen out of use), understand currents, read wind patterns, handle ship operations, and master a thousand other little details.
And naval combat? I'm not even going to start!
I slept three or four hours a day. Ate only when I managed to grab something on the go. My mood had dropped to "let everything die" on the second day—and never once improved after that.
Oh, and there had been plenty of talk about me being a "well-connected brat." A couple of not particularly bright individuals had even had the nerve to say it to my face. What's more, as I learned later, they had connections of their own—it's just that their "pipes were smaller and their smoke thinner," so to speak. The cruiser under construction had apparently been promised to one of them… until chance—and an admiral's son—intervened.
I responded to their complaint in a manner entirely appropriate to my state at the time: I challenged both of them to a duel.
At the same time.
And gave them a light trimming—not fatal, I didn't need blood feuds with their families, but their faces were no longer quite as pretty, and they'd be recovering from multiple cuts, stab wounds, and fractures for a long, long time.
Just as my father had said—the talk quieted down after that.
But all that was behind me now.
I stepped aboard, as tradition dictated—the first to do so.
The deck swayed gently beneath my feet, and somewhere deep within the ship, the power plant—the cruiser's heart—rumbled faintly.
"An indescribable feeling, isn't it, Captain?" a gray-mustached warrior addressed me. A scar ran the length of his fac—another small favor from my father. An experienced executive officer and adjutant, assigned to me from Eastern Fleet headquarters. A sort of "mustached nanny" who, with that kindly face of his, could probably cause mass incontinence in some unlucky village.
"Hard to disagree, Tandao. It's difficult to believe this power was forged by the hands of our engineers."
"And yet, here it is."
"Well then, all the more reason to put it to use for the greater glory of our nation. Crew, to your assigned stations! Prepare for departure!"
"Engine to start!" the XO barked into the speaking tube as soon as the crew took their positions. "Course: south-southwest!"
"Raise anchor. Ahead slow!"
The cruiser began to move out of the bay at an unhurried pace.
"Engine room, report!" I remembered a rather important step, earning an approving nod from the XO.
"Engine room: normal. Boiler pressure in the green."
Good. No issues there.
"Gun crews, prepare weapons. Ahead medium. Stand by to turn thirty degrees starboard on my command."
A brief wait.
"Turn."
The multi-ton steel mass responded smoothly, swinging onto the calculated course.
"Training targets dead ahead," the lookout reported about ten minutes later.
"Helm, hard to port. Starboard batteries—readiness one."
In Fire Nation naval terminology, "readiness one" meant the projectiles were placed in their cradles, but not yet ignited.
Now came the hardest part—calculating lead, based on wind strength, ship speed, distance to target, and its type.
Right now, the difficulty level was as low as it could get: calm seas, and the target—a chunk of rock with a painted marker—was, like any respectable chunk of rock far from an earthbender, completely immobile and monumentally stubborn.
"Elevation: four up, one right."
Each catapult had special etched markers—the vertical ones for range, the horizontal ones for relative motion. It sounded simple, but figuring out exactly how much to adjust could sometimes make your head spin.
"Readiness two!"
The cruiser's assigned firebenders (eight of them aboard, plus the captain) ignited the projectiles in unison.
"Fire!"
A sharp stomp on the launch pedals—and the catapults hurled their payloads toward the target.
So, why did the second shot fall short and lag behind?
That caught Tandao's attention too.
"Second catapult, report."
"The sighting marks aren't properly calibrated, and the launch mechanism is operating with a delay and at only eight-tenths power."
What the hell is that supposed to be?
"Poor lubrication during assembly. We'll have to disassemble, clean, rework, relubricate, and reassemble. Half a day should do it, Captain," the more experienced XO supplied.
"Thank you." I nodded and returned to the exercise. There was still the power plant to run through its paces and the rest of the weapon systems to check today.
"Full ahead…"