Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 121: Unexpected Auditor

A man with a neatly trimmed beard dyed with henna and eyes as sharp as polished obsidian sat within the confines of his teak-wood carriage.

He was in his early thirties and possessed an air of sophistication that made the rough-spun tunics of the Northmen look like rags.

He wore robes of the finest Cordoban silk, embroidered with geometric patterns of gold thread - a style common among the elite of the Caliphate of Al-Andalus.

Even though the Frankish realm was currently gathering a crusade to the south, he had traveled across the stormy Atlantic and the North Sea in a swift dhow to gain an audience with the man known as Ragnar the Director.

Ragnar had long since made use of the trade networks to acquire spices and mathematical texts from the Arabs to fulfill the demands of his "R&D Department."

However, his name was usually whispered with fear rather than respect in the sun-drenched courts of the South. After all, even now as a self-proclaimed "Director," he was seen as a barbarian who had merely stumbled upon a few clever tricks. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

His most well-known quality was being declared "The Iron Demon" by the Pope.

Though the Caliphate of Cordoba was a rival to the Catholic kingdoms, they usually viewed the Vikings as pests.

Yet, the man in the carriage did not care about such details. Instead, he had a Joint Venture proposal for Ragnar that he believed the Viking industrialist could not refuse.

The man arriving in City Titan shortly was a powerful Vizier named Al-Hakam.

He was a scholar-general, a man who had studied the stars in the great libraries of Toledo and led cavalry charges against the Christian kingdoms of Spain.

He appreciated science. He appreciated algebra. And he had heard rumors that a Northman was using geometry to kill Franks.

If Ragnar knew a powerful Vizier of Al-Andalus was coming to meet him, he might have prepared a spreadsheet; after all, such a potential investor was rare.

Yet, Al-Hakam decided to show up unannounced to test Ragnar and his "system." A foreign dignitary entering a sovereign territory without a visa was a sign of disrespect, and this was not unknown to the Vizier.

However, when Al-Hakam laid his eyes on the brutalist defenses of City Titan, he could not help but be stunned.

He had expected wooden palisades. He had expected mud.

Instead, he saw the "Smog Shield."

A thick, grey layer of coal smoke hung over the city, pumped out by the blast furnaces. To a modern eye, it was pollution. To Al-Hakam, it was the breath of a sleeping dragon.

And the walls... they were not stone. They were a strange, grey rock that had been poured like water and hardened into stone (concrete).

After arriving at the checkpoint of the city’s main gate Al-Hakam noticed the garrison. They were all wearing standardized "Mark III" plate armor, stamped with serial numbers. They didn’t carry spears.

They carried heavy crossbows and possessed a terrifying uniformity.

"Halt," a guard said, holding up a hand clad in steel. "Present your identification and purpose of visit."

Al-Hakam’s translator, a nervous merchant from Frankia, spoke up. "This is the Vizier Al-Hakam of Cordoba. He demands entry."

The guard didn’t bow. He didn’t cower. He pulled a clipboard from his belt.

"Does he have a scheduled appointment with the Directorate?"

Al-Hakam blinked. He was used to fear. He was used to awe. He was not used to administrative bureaucracy.

"I am a Vizier," Al-Hakam said in perfect Latin, leaning out of the window. "I do not make appointments. I make history."

The guard looked at the Vizier, then at the clipboard, then back at the Vizier.

He sighed, the sound echoing inside his helmet.

"Walk-in client. Very well. We will need to process a ’Guest Pass’. Please surrender your weapons and any flammable liquids."

Al-Hakam was intrigued. The discipline was absolute. He handed over his decorative scimitar to the guard, who tagged it with a paper ticket and handed him a stub.

"Claim check," the guard grunted. "Don’t lose it, or you fill out Form 44-B."

As the carriage rolled into City Titan, Al-Hakam looked out the window. The streets were paved. Not with cobblestones, but with flat slabs.

Gas lamps hissed on the corners, fighting the gloom of the smog. It was ugly. It was loud. It smelled of sulfur and unwashed bodies.

Massive gears turned in the distance. Steam whistles screamed like banshees. Carts moved without horses on iron rails. It was no longer a Viking settlement. It was a machine.

Despite being repulsed by the lack of gardens and poetry, the Vizier made his way towards the Governor’s Palace.

He stepped out of the carriage. He expected a herald. He expected a red carpet.

Instead, he was stopped by a receptionist desk in the lobby.

"I am Vizier Al-Hakam," he announced, his voice echoing in the utilitarian hall. "I have come to discuss the Frankish Problem with your Director."

The receptionist, a young Saxon woman with ink-stained fingers, looked up from her ledger.

"The Director is currently in a ’Deep Work’ session," she said automatically. "He is not taking unsolicited vendors."

Al-Hakam’s eyes narrowed. "I am not a vendor. I am a representative of the most advanced civilization on Earth."

The receptionist hesitated. She saw the gold thread on his robes. She saw the intelligence in his eyes. And she knew that Ragnar was currently looking for investors to fund the coastal defense.

"I will... ping him," she said uncertainly. She pulled a string that rang a bell deep within the complex.

After a few moments, a hulking figure appeared. It was General Bjorn, wearing his COO sash. He looked at the Arab dignitary, assessed the threat level, and grunted.

"The Director will see you," Bjorn said. " But he has five minutes before the shift change. Follow me. And don’t touch the walls. The paint is wet."

Al-Hakam followed the giant Viking through corridors that buzzed with activity. Scribes ran past with blueprints. Engineers argued over tensile strength. It felt less like a court and more like a beehive.

Finally, they reached a set of double iron doors. Stenciled on the front were the words: OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR.

Bjorn pushed the doors open.

Al-Hakam witnessed Ragnar sitting behind a desk that was large enough to sleep on. The desk was covered in maps, coal samples, and disassembled clockwork mechanisms.

Ragnar was not wearing a crown. He was wearing a tailored grey tunic with the sleeves rolled up, revealing arms scarred from welding sparks. He had a pair of magnifying spectacles perched on his nose.

While sitting in his swivel chair (a recent invention), Ragnar exuded a sense of manic energy. He didn’t look up immediately. He was fiddling with a small brass gear.

"The tolerance is off by two millimeters," Ragnar muttered to himself. "Leif needs to recalibrate the lathe."

Al-Hakam stood there, silence stretching. He was a Vizier. He commanded armies. He had debated philosophy with the greatest minds of the East. And he was being ignored for a gear.

"Ahem," Al-Hakam cleared his throat.

Ragnar froze. He slowly looked up, peering over the rim of his spectacles. His blue eyes locked onto Al-Hakam’s dark ones. There was no fear, only calculation.

"Who are you," Ragnar asked, his voice flat, "and why are you interrupting my R&D time?"

Ragnar was quite perturbed. He had been trying to solve the issue of the "Steam-Cooker" pressure valves for the coastal defense. His office was his sanctuary.

Despite his minor irritation, he could immediately tell by the silk and the way the man held himself that he was someone of great importance.

Yet, he had arrived without a calendar invite.

Seeing how Ragnar reacted, Al-Hakam was quite shocked; the barbarian gazed upon him as if he was a distraction. This was... refreshing.

"I am Vizier Al-Hakam of Cordoba," the Arab announced, stepping forward. "I have traveled from the lands of Algebra and Alchemy. I see you are attempting to build a steam engine. Your compression ratio is wrong."

Ragnar sat up straighter. The word "compression ratio" was not something he expected to hear in the 9th Century.

"Is it?" Ragnar challenged, leaning back. "And I suppose you have a better formula?"

"I do," Al-Hakam smiled thinly. "And I also have information regarding the Frankish fleet. They sail in three days. They have Greek Fire."

Ragnar’s eyes narrowed. Greek Fire. Napalm. That was a proprietary technology he didn’t have yet.

"I am intrigued," Ragnar admitted, dropping the gear onto the desk. "However, I am currently reviewing the cafeteria budget. If you want to talk thermodynamics and war..."

Ragnar pulled a pocket watch from his vest. He clicked it open.

"...you can wait in the lobby. I have a 2:00 PM meeting with my wife regarding the diaper supply. Come back in thirty minutes."

Ragnar decided to snub the man. It was a power move. If he accepted this unannounced visit immediately, he looked desperate. If he made the man wait, he looked busy. And in business, busy meant successful.

Though Al-Hakam wanted to protest—to draw his scimitar, if he had one—he looked at the pocket watch. It was a mechanism of exquisite complexity. Far smaller than anything in Cordoba.

The barbarian had miniaturized time.

Al-Hakam laughed. It was a genuine, delighted sound.

"Thirty minutes," Al-Hakam nodded respectfully. "I will inspect your blast furnace while I wait. Do not be late, Director. The Franks will not wait for your diaper meeting."

Al-Hakam turned and swept out of the room, his silk robes rustling against the concrete floor.

As the doors closed, Ragnar let out a breath he had been holding. He looked at Bjorn.

"Bjorn," Ragnar whispered. "Did you hear that? They have Greek Fire."

"Is that bad, Director?"

"It’s liquid fire that burns on water," Ragnar said, a manic grin spreading across his face. "It’s terrible. We need to steal it."

Ragnar grabbed a fresh sheet of paper.

"Cancel the diaper meeting. And get Leif. I think we just found our Series B investor."

Outside the office, Al-Hakam walked through the bustling corridor. A wide grin appeared across the man’s face as he looked at the flickering gas lamps.

"He made me wait," Al-Hakam mused, admiring the audacity. "Well played, Northman. Well played."