Czar
October 8th, 1947
It was a cold day, snow swirling about as my jet descended, the Scandinavian coast crawling into visibility beneath the clouds, gravid with snow. A million tiny crystals floating down towards the hard, stony ground. directly south stood the destination, an industrial facility the size of a small city, and producing, at an alarming rate, arms for the legions of Scandinavia. Iron towers spewing black smoke and embers into the steel sky. The glow of the massive forges, some able to cast entire bomber frames and hulls for destroyers in one go, was visible even from some fifteen kilometers out, a series of hot red splotches across the cool grey of the monstrous industrial zone.
I leaned back in my seat, reflecting on the mysterious nature of the project that apparently dominated the entire west wing of the facility, the brightest lights and darkest smoke clouds were there, dying the clouds above the color of molten iron and soot. The lack of detail that my cousin had given is quite worrying, but, I owed him several favors and he has a way of putting pressure on a guy...Particularly when he also dominates the trade industries of the empire I rule.
Either way, he demanded a contingent of metallurgists, chemists, and engineers. I obliged, providing him with the scientists he requested, whose labors lay somewhere within the rapidly approaching facility. Hopefully it will pay off, but if it doesn’t, it won’t be that big a sacrifice if it isn’t, but return on investment would be nice.
I look to my guards, sitting and reading in their seats aboard the jet. The jet itself lines up with the landing strip, black on the grey backdrop of the tainted snow that accompanies massed industry. A massive number of small dots, milling around by the airfield like ants grow visible as the aircraft rapidly approaches the runway, the sharp jolt of the gear hitting the runway alerted security from their reading and they began readying for exit, straightening ties, securing hats, and checking guns.
By the time the jet coasted to a stop, they were ready, arranged behind me in two rows of three, bayonets shining in the low light of the jet as the stairs fell to the white caked ground.
The party out to greet me was impressive, at least thirty blue uniformed Sjaelland guard at attention, sabers drawn to form a brilliantly shining canopy of steel for me and my guard to tread beneath as we clear the stairs. They lower their blades behind us, sealing the tunnel before sheathing their swords and dissipating it.
Beyond this small bubble of military order was the coordinated mayhem of an active loading zone. Engines, tanks, bombs and other tools of war are loaded en masse into cargo aircraft. These are presumably for the arms buildup that came from the expiration of the 1916 treaty the year before. This facility had been built immediately prior to the expiration, taking less than a year to rise from the tundra, iron spires looming over a steel sea. Thousands work and live here, from the several hundred security officers to the tank assembly crews to the glorified iron priests, devotees of the forge and master engineers.
The massive doors began to roll open as I approach, their bronzed scenes of productivity setting the mood for newly arrived workers. The interior retains this aesthetic, with iron fixtures holding halogen lights spaced out regularly.
On the walls were the grand scenes of wars past in bas-relief, images of thousands of men charging into battle, becoming the undoing for a bevy of different foes, from the Turkic hordes of the fourteenth century, whose conquest of Europe was only ceased by the greatest coalition ever seen in European history, from the French knights to the Scandinavian legions to the glittering armies of the papacy. All factions recognized the threat posed by the foes whose mere approach had caused the wisp-thin shards that were all that was left of Rome to dissolve, leaving disorganized states without a supervisor, the agreement was made to band together with former foes to crush the Turks.
The resulting battle at Wroclaw lasted three weeks and costed several hundred thousand lives, but in the end, the Turks were stopped, and never collected themselves enough to return to their expansion. That power collapsed into the modern Persian and Ottoman empires, with their other holdings returning to their old aristocracies, as it should be.
The other walls were quite detailed in my eyes, but they failed in being better than the battle of Wroclaw bas-relief, with the end of the corridor having many bare panels, obviously for many future glories. I open the doors at the end of this hall to gaze out onto the main production floor, and that’s about when my jaw came into contact with the concrete.
For a good kilometer at its farthest, there stretched a constant mass of production. Each section devoted to a different form of manufacturing, from the mass stamping of ammunition to the precision assembly of newly minted jet engines and rocket motors. On gilded pedestals stood clerics, wielding microphones like a duelist wields his rapier. They, while difficult to hear from where I am, seem to espousing the word of ‘Odin’. Well, what’s to be expected from a theocratic empire of the Norse way. Their garb was splendid, with pure white robes with black fur trim to the ornate parchments dangling from gold chains, bearing minute runic script, presumably prayers to their gods.
The Clergy were the only thing there bearing the mark of royal wealth, the rest was black-stained with oil and soot. The great forges glow red as Steel was rendered into the great steeds of the modern cavalry. Across great expanses of wall there were banners, of the empire, of the royal house, and of the protector god of this facility. My attention is suddenly diverted by a lift arriving next to me, and opening to reveal the Fylkir.
He was a very neatly groomed man; from his crisply trimmed beard to the precise way he combed his hair to downplay his silvering temples. His features were hard, like a marble statue brought to eerie life. His clothes were reminiscent of those of a general, if a general has diamonds in the buttons and actual gold cockades on the hat. In spite of the immaculateness of it, his uniform did not seem to be corrupted by the ash of the factory floor, which looks to be falling like snow in some places. The ash almost seems repelled for a good half meter, but I pay no heed, it’s probably a truck of the light. To each of his sides stood a pair of black-clad figures, faces hidden by blackened steel masks with darkened lenses in the eyes, an unusual choice considering the already dark nature of the building.
I smile, stepping forth and hugging my cousin, he reciprocates quickly, grinning when we release the embrace. I open the conversation.
“Cousin, it’s been too long.”
“You’re far too right on that one.”
“So, I’m presuming this is the big project my men were needed for?” I hoped my tone would convey my awe at my surroundings.
“No, this was already here, but they did find some issues with the production lines that were remedied.”
“Are you completely sure? this is Impressive enough as is, particularly if you intend upon sharing.”
“Well, if we intend on a continued alliance, I hope that you’d accept some sort of deal regarding the industrial output and some designs I’d be interested in.”
“Wait, wait, wait, don’t start wheeling and dealing before all the cards are on the table, you do this all the time, what I want to see is the big guns.”
“The big guns, THE BIG GUNS?!” He laughed, amused, considering our proximity to the naval gun assembly line, it makes sense to be amused by my ironic timing. “I’ll show you the proper guns in just a minute.” He’s drawing it out, savoring every moment of tension that he can before he springs whatever reveal he’s planning.
“So, what are you going to show me in this minute before the big reveal? because I get the jist, it’s a huge industrial facility that would be enough to match the output of an entire medium sized province, and exceed it when up-staffed.” The awe of the scale of the thing is wearing off and I was growing tired of my cousin’s typical bullshit. “if you’re not going to show me the good stuff, you’re not getting a birthday present.” I was perfectly serious, this quantity of delay I’m willing to handle is around zero when I have just had a fairly long flight. (amend phrasing later)
“Okay, okay, just follow me, I do believe you’ll be amazed.” He briskly walked off, clearing his throat for a spiel on whatever he was doing here.
“You know the problem with submarines is, right?”
“What?” I act coy, it’s best to not interrupt him with snark, otherwise this will take longer.
“They can’t handle themselves in close combat, one depth charge and boom, they’re dead. this is why, when the weapons development treaty was about to expire, I looked to the sagas for inspiration...” Ah, again with the sagas, when he wants to get inspiration for anything, he goes to the sagas. Those bloody holy books are always his inspiration...well, when you’re a spiritual leader that is to be expected, isn’t it. Either way he seems to have concluded the theological chat and is getting to the point.
“...Thus, I, inspired, took the art to the engineers, told them to use that as source material and here we are.” Shit, I now have no idea what he is talking about and we’re getting close to an elevator going down. I begin to realize my inattentiveness may result in my own embarrassment. I chose to shut up and wait in the elevator as it descends through the cliff. The elevator opened, and all my awe at the facility was trumped by what I saw. All down the length of the fjord stood the weapons he’d spoken of.
They were covered in huge, black plates of armor, bristling with cannon and torpedo tubes. Their eyes were reinforced glass. Their beaks were drills, huge enough to pierce the skin of the toughest ship. Their arms were lined with spikes, to grasp their prey and crush it into the drill or drag it to the bottom of the sea. They slowly moved up and down with the waves, the action of which looked unnervingly like breathing. A deep hum comes from the depths of the beasts. Whatever powered them was already at work, powering the lights deep in the eyes. I felt unnerved by their presence, as if they weren't meant to be seen by man. Each slight bob of them in the water makes me shudder. Right on cue, my cousin drops a single phrase that allows me to figure out what he was saying prior.
“I present the krakens.” His face is practically growing in paternal pride; and for some reason the mere act of being proud of these things made me want to clock him in the jaw. I of course, restrain myself, and instead focused on figuring out what was messing with me. The best choice, I think, would be to just look away and wait for it to end. I hope that my face doesn’t betray my unfounded disgust. The easiest way to cover the tracks of looking away is to light up my pipe. I do feel slightly calmed by the warm, nicotine impregnated smoke flowing into my lungs. Once the pipe had gotten going, I look back to my cousin.
