Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 84: An Unscheduled Performance Review

The Border of Mercia, near Nottingham

Ragnar and the Imperial Corps had arrived within the buffer zone of the Don Valley after two days’ worth of marching along the Roman roads.

Obviously, they had established a fortified perimeter throughout the nights.

Ragnar was trying to lose as few "Human Assets" as possible to environmental attrition; as such, he had kept his forces dry, heated with portable coal braziers, and fueled by the high-calorie Nutrient Bricks.. Helga had concocted from oats and honey.

To Ragnar, every one of his soldiers was a significant investment of capital and training time; those terminated due to pneumonia were not easily replaced without the Human Resources department suffering a backlog.

Expansion required kinetic force, but he did not want to conduct a hostile takeover without regard to his employees’ longevity. As such, they marched at an optimal pace, rotating the heavy equipment between squads.

Ragnar was currently conducting a spot-check on the night shift.

One of the sentries on the northern perimeter had been standing in a puddle for too long, to the point where his boots were beginning to compromise the waterproof seal.

Ragnar, who was passing by with his clipboard, offered to take his place while the man changed his socks. As such, the Director of Industry was standing on watch with a group of pike-men, the mist of the English night swirling around his matte-grey armor.

Ragnar decided to conduct a brief employee satisfaction survey with the simple infantryman standing beside him.

"So... What is your payroll ID?"

The man looked at Ragnar with an odd expression, clearly terrified that the Director himself was asking for his number, before answering as if he were reporting to the Bursar.

"Director! I am Private Haldor, Section 4, Pike Division!"

Ragnar spoke in an informal, break-room tone as he adjusted his heavy leather gloves.

"Relax, Haldor. I’m just conducting a random audit. How is the new armor plating treating you? Any pinching in the pauldrons?"

Haldor nodded enthusiastically as he gazed at Ragnar in awe. Ragnar was more than just their King-in-all-but-name; he was the Architect.

His rise from a lowly smith to the master of the North was a legend told in every tavern from York to Thetford.

Yet, despite all of that, he stood here in the mud, checking on the fit of a private’s shoulder armor.

"It is excellent, Director! The weight distribution is far superior to the old mail. I feel... indestructible."

The private nearly saluted in the dark, afraid to say something that might result in a pay deduction.

However, before the performance review could continue, Ragnar detected a specific acoustic anomaly.

This was the sound of metal grinding on metal. Specifically, the high-pitched squeak of poorly oiled, rusted chainmail rings rubbing together.

He patted Private Haldor on his shoulder with a grave look on his face and commanded the man with a tone filled with executive authority, immediately dropping his casual demeanor.

"Private Haldor, sound the steam whistle. We have unauthorized visitors."

Haldor did not know how Ragnar heard it over the wind, but a directive was a directive, and he would be liquidated if he failed to fulfill it; the man saluted Ragnar by pounding his chest plate before running to the nearby pressure-tank alarm system.

"Initiating alarm sequence, Director!"

After Haldor ran off, Ragnar drew his officer’s Messer a heavy, single-edged falchion and aimed it into the fog.

While doing so, he chatted with the remaining sentry, a crossbowman named Torstein.

"I really hope that ’Typewriter’ of yours has a full magazine, Torstein. The market is about to open."

Though Torstein had not detected anything in the vicinity, he quickly unslung his repeating crossbow and cranked the lever, loading a bolt into the chamber.

Though the man did not know what Ragnar had detected, he trusted the Director’s calculations, and as such, was prepared to hold the line until the "Heavy Assets" Division was awake.

...

Shortly after Ragnar and Torstein’s actions, the piercing shriek of the steam whistle echoed across the valley.

It was a terrifying, industrial sound that awoke every man in the camp; unlike a horn, which sounded like war, the whistle sounded like work.

As such, the men did not even bother with panic; they immediately grabbed their pikes and Lucerne Hammers, their muscle memory taking over from months of drilling, and poured out of their tents into the pre-assigned defensive grids.

When the Mercian raiders hiding in the darkness heard the whistle scream, they paused. It was an alien sound.

But knowing their cover was blown, they sought to rush the perimeter as quickly as possible.

These men were King Burgred’s "Elites" Thanes clad in the very armor Ragnar had sold them weeks ago.

They believed they were well-equipped. They believed the element of surprise would allow them to slaughter the sleeping Vikings.

When the Mercians near Ragnar’s position rushed him, the thwack-thwack-thwack of Torstein’s repeating crossbow could be heard.

Three bolts flew in rapid succession, punching through the rusted mail of the lead Thane like a hole punch through paper.

"For Mercia! Kill the Wizard!" the Thane screamed as he fell, clutching his chest.

In the darkness of the night, a hostile takeover attempt had begun within Ragnar’s encampment.

The forces Burgred had sent to "flank" the Vikings had decided to try a night raid. Ragnar adeptly wielded his Messer, having calibrated its balance for close-quarters efficiency.

With a parry-riposte combination, Ragnar deflected a heavy Danish axe and thrust his falchion through the gap in the attacker’s hauberk.

"Your warranty has expired!" Ragnar grunted, shoving the dying man aside.

Ragnar and Torstein were quickly pushed back toward the fire-line by the overwhelming numbers of the enemy rush; when they reached the second perimeter, Ragnar heard General Bjorn’s voice boom over the chaos.

"Director! Clear the firing lane!"

Quickly calculating the trajectory, Ragnar grabbed Torstein by the collar and dragged him behind a row of wooden barricades.

"Grenadiers! Liquidate the assets!" Bjorn roared.

From the second line, a squad of "Chemical Specialists" stepped forward.

They held ceramic pots sealed with wax—Helga’s "Spicy Mix," a primitive napalm fueled by sulfur and pine resin.

They lit the fuses and hurled them over the barricades.

Explosions of sticky, yellow fire blossomed in the night. The Mercian raiders, packed tight in their formation, were engulfed.

The rusted chainmail they wore heated up instantly, turning their armor into ovens.

"It burns! The water does nothing!" a Mercian screamed, rolling in the mud.

This chemical intervention had bought Ragnar time to reform the ranks among the "Can-Openers" who had just arrived to support the perimeter. Ragnar stood up, wiping soot from his visor.

"Can-Openers! Advance! Process them!"

From behind the smoke, the armored giants of the Heavy Assets Division stepped forward. They marched in lockstep, their Lucerne Hammers lowered.

The Mercians, terrified by the fire and confused by the whistles, charged desperately.

They swung their axes at the grey steel wall.

The axes bounced off. The munitions-grade plate held firm.

In return, the Industrial Corps swung their hammers.

The heavy, four-pronged heads smashed into the Mercian helmets.

Even if the mail didn’t break, the skulls underneath did. The spike on the reverse side punched through the "discount" armor with terrifying ease.

"This is not a battle!" a Mercian captain shouted, realizing his mistake too late. "It is a machine!"

Because of the difference in metallurgy and the strict corporate hierarchy established among Ragnar’s forces, the men under his command were quickly able to funnel the enemy’s forces into the "Kill Zones" pre-designated pockets of crossfire where the repeating crossbows waited.

By the time the sun rose, painting the valley in a dreary grey light, the camp perimeter was littered with the bodies of the Mercian "Elites." Their rusted armor was stained with soot and blood.

Ragnar walked through the carnage, his boots squelching in the mud. He looked at the dead.

They were brave men, led by a greedy King who didn’t understand that he had bought the liquidation stock for a reason.

General Bjorn approached, cleaning his hammer with a rag.

"Status report, General?" Ragnar asked, sheathing his sword.

"Director, we suffered twelve minor injuries and one case of heat exhaustion from the fire. The enemy... total liquidation. Two hundred dead. The rest fled back to Nottingham."

Ragnar nodded. Twelve injuries against a night ambush of elite troops. The efficiency rating was acceptable.

He looked south, toward the bridge of Nottingham. The smoke from the chemical grenades was still drifting in that direction.

"They tried to steal our inventory while we slept," Ragnar said cold, his voice flat. "King Burgred thinks this is a game of raids. He thinks he can poke the bear and run away."

"What are the orders, Director?" Bjorn asked. "Do we secure the perimeter and wait for the siege engines?"

Ragnar shook his head. He looked at the "Spicy Mix" pots remaining in the crate.

"Change of schedule. We are not laying siege to Nottingham."

Bjorn looked confused. "We aren’t?"

"No," Ragnar said, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "We are going to burn it down. We march within the hour. I want every Grenadier at the front. King Burgred wanted to profit from our scraps? Fine. I will turn his castle into scrap."

"Total liquidation?" Bjorn asked, grinning.

"Total liquidation," Ragnar confirmed. "An act of retribution on behalf of the disturbed sleep schedule of my employees."