Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 58: Efficiency is a sin?

The Regional Office, Thetford

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, Ragnar was stuck in the mud of administrative hell.

Conquering East Anglia had been the easy part. The physics of the "God Hammer" and the chemistry of napalm were predictable. People, however, were messy variables.

Ragnar was tasked with incorporating the entire kingdom of East Anglia into the Jernheim Corporate structure. He had to go through the necessary procedures to declare Guthrum as the "Regional Manager", while simultaneously managing the harvest of 200,000 acres of newly acquired farmland.

Word quickly spread of Ragnar’s rapid "hostile takeover" of the neighboring kingdom. The other Saxon Kings of Wessex and Mercia were left scratching their heads, wondering how a Viking industrialist had managed to force the Great Heathen Army of East Anglia to surrender in under twenty-four hours.

Of course, per the terms of the "Non-Disclosure Agreement" (NDA) Ragnar had forced Guthrum to sign, the survivors were incapable of leaking specific information regarding the Torsion Spikes or the chemical formulas. As such, numerous wild theories came to be. Some said Ragnar had summoned a dragon. Others said he had purchased the wrath of God with Danish gold.

Back in York, King Horik was confused by the news. With Ragnar’s conquest, Horik technically ruled more land than any Viking in history. However, there was not much he could do about the situation. He was aware that his son-in-law held the keys to the armory, the food supply, and the terrifying "whistling stones."

As a man tightly controlled by his desire to eat roasted pheasant and not be liquidated by his own Prime Minister (his daughter, Gyda), King Horik dreaded any conflict. As such, he quickly recognized the results of the war. He sat in his hall, rubber-stamping every document Ragnar sent him, happy to be the figurehead of the most profitable empire in the North.

Ragnar, meanwhile, was swamped with work.

"Director," Guthrum groaned, walking into the makeshift office in Thetford’s keep. He was holding a stack of papers. "The peasants... they are asking for ’overtime pay’. What is overtime?"

"It means if they work past sunset, you give them an extra turnip," Ragnar explained without looking up from his blueprints. "It improves morale."

"But they are peasants!" Guthrum argued, slamming his hand on the desk. "We used to just whip them!"

"Whipping damages the workforce," Ragnar sighed. "A damaged worker requires medical leave. Medical leave costs money. Just give them the turnip, Guthrum. It’s cheaper than a revolt."

While Ragnar was managing the affairs of two whole kingdoms now, his "Quality Control Department" was hard at work.

****

The Rusty Anchor, York

Leif the Lesser, Director of Intelligence, did not idly laze about while Ragnar was off playing conqueror. He had made quite some progress in establishing new "listening posts" (bribed barmaids and chatty monks) throughout the nearby Saxon counties.

Currently, Leif was in the back room of The Rusty Anchor, drinking ale that tasted like old socks. Across from him sat Brother Osric, the Minister of Education and Propaganda.

Osric was nervous. He was a man of God who had accidentally become the PR manager for a Viking corporation. He fidgeted with his wooden cross.

"So," Leif asked, peeling a hard-boiled egg. "How is the market sentiment?"

"The people are confused," Osric admitted. "They like the new plows. They like the soap. But the Church... the Church is not happy."

Osric lowered his voice. "The Archbishop of Canterbury has noticed the... efficiency."

"Efficiency is a sin?" Leif asked.

"To them, yes," Osric nodded. "They cannot explain how heathens are producing steel that doesn’t rust and cloth that doesn’t rot. They are calling it ’Devil’s Craft’."

Osric passed over a parchment he had copied from a messenger he had intercepted (and bribed with a bar of soap).

"Read this," Osric whispered.

Leif wiped his hands on his tunic and took the letter. He read it, his brow furrowing.

"To all Christian Lords of Mercia and Wessex. The Northmen of York traffic in unholy goods. Their iron is forged in hellfire. Their wealth is ill-gotten. The Church officially condemns the trade of Jernheim. Furthermore, any Christian Lord who seizes these godless cargoes is granted absolution. It is not theft to take from the Devil; it is a holy reclamation."

Leif scoffed as he placed down the parchment. "Sanctioned piracy."

"It is an endorsement of theft," Osric corrected grimly. "The Church is telling every petty baron and starving knight that if they rob our wagons, they go to Heaven."

This created a massive area of conflict for Ragnar’s trade routes. Aethelwulf the Weasel had already reported three wagons missing near the border. If the Church legitimized this, every road south of York would become a gauntlet. And Ragnar did not have the manpower to escort every single cart of turnips.

Leif sighed heavily. He knew exactly who had to deal with this. And it wasn’t Ragnar. The Director was too busy teaching Guthrum how to calculate depreciation assets.

"I suppose I will have to tell the Prime Minister," Leif muttered. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

******

The Governor’s Palace, York

Princess Gyda, Mistress of the Ledger and Prime Minister of the Industrial Empire, was currently in the Great Hall, auditing the coal consumption of the glass-blowers.

She looked up as Leif entered. She didn’t smile. Smiling was inefficient.

"Report," she said.

Leif handed her the letter. "We have a bottleneck, Prime Minister. The Archbishop is trying to bankrupt us."

Gyda read the letter. Her eyes narrowed. She placed it down with the same disgust she usually reserved for a math error.

"The Church wants a trade war," she said coldly. "They know they can’t beat Ragnar on the field, so they attack the supply chain."

"Ragnar will want to invade Canterbury," Leif noted. "He will want to build a tank and drive it through the cathedral doors."

"We cannot afford another war right now," Gyda countered. "The integration of East Anglia has drained our cash reserves. We need a quarter of peace to replenish the treasury."

She drummed her fingers on the table.

"Ragnar is too proud to negotiate with priests," Gyda mused. "And he is too busy. If I tell him about this, he will drop everything to invent a ’Church-Busting Missile’, and the harvest will rot."

"So, what do we do?" Leif asked. "We can’t fight the Pope."

"No," Gyda agreed. "But we can make the Kings of England ignore him."

She stood up and walked to the window.

"The Kings of Wessex and Mercia are greedy. They hate us, yes. But they love our steel. They love our cheap wool. The Church is telling them to steal, but theft disrupts the market. We need someone on the inside to remind them that stable trade is more profitable than a holy war."

Leif looked at Gyda with a gaze of confusion. "Who do we know on the inside? We just killed their armies."

Gyda snorted in displeasure. She felt uneasy just thinking about it.

"There is one person," she admitted. "A woman who controls the ear of the King of Wessex. She is... intelligent. For a Saxon."

"Who?"

"Princess Judith," Gyda said, the name tasting like sour milk in her mouth.

Judith was the daughter of the King of Frankia, the stepmother of the current King of Wessex, and a woman known for her sharp intellect and political maneuvering. Years ago, before Ragnar built his empire, Gyda had met her during a diplomatic envoy. Judith had called Gyda a "barbarian." Gyda had called Judith a "decorated cow."

They did not get along. "If I can get Judith to convince the King of Wessex to ignore the Archbishop’s decree..." Gyda plotted aloud. "If Wessex keeps buying our goods, Mercia will have to follow suit or lose the economic advantage. Greed will override piety."

Leif nodded. "It makes sense. But... will she listen to you?"

"She will hate it," Gyda smiled thinly. "But Judith loves power. And I am going to offer her something she cannot refuse."

"What?"

"Exclusive distribution rights," Gyda said. "I will offer her a monopoly on Jernheim Velvet for the southern courts. She will be the only woman in Wessex who can sell our luxury cloth. She will be rich beyond measure."

Leif whistled. "Bribery."

"Lobbying," Gyda corrected.

"Why not get Ragnar to write the letter?" Leif suggested. "He is the Director. Maybe she respects him?"

Gyda shook her head. "Ragnar would try to explain the loom technology to her. He would bore her to death. Or he would accidentally insult her by offering her a turnip. No, this requires a woman’s touch."

She sat back down and dipped her quill in ink.

"I will write to the decorated cow," Gyda muttered. "I will stroke her ego. I will offer her the cloth. And I will remind her that if she helps the Church starve us, Ragnar will inevitably invent something that burns stone, and her castle will be next."

Leif watched her write. He realized that while Ragnar built the engine, Gyda steered the car.

"I will leave the delivery to you," Gyda said, sealing the letter with blue wax. "Use the Raven Flight. And Leif?"

"Yes, Prime Minister?"

"Make sure the bird is fast. We are losing profit every hour."

Leif took the letter and disappeared into the shadows.

Gyda sat alone in the hall. She looked at the ledger. The numbers were good, but fragile.

"Building an empire is easy," she whispered to the empty room. "Keeping the neighbors from stealing the bricks is the hard part."

She picked up her knife and went back to peeling her apple. She hoped Judith liked velvet. Because if this diplomatic mission failed, the only option left would be Project Vulcan. And Gyda hated cleaning up the mess napalm made.