The Legacy of the Iron Dragon: An Alternate History Viking Epic

by Robert Kroese

  The problem—one of them, anyway—was immediately apparent. A section of the reflective shielding that Haas had wrapped around the main power cable had blown off, exposing the insulation below. The insulation had partially melted, and the wire had shorted out. The transmitter nodes themselves seemed undamaged.

  He opened the tool kit, pressing the case against Arc Zero’s hull so the magnets embedded in it would hold it in place. He extracted a wire stripper and got to work removing the old insulation. It was maddeningly slow and awkward with the space suit’s gloves, but he didn’t dare rush for fear of accidentally severing the wires. By the time he finished, Arc Zero was heading back into the stratosphere. Already his tether had gone tight as the wind tried to push him off the hull. The atmosphere was stable at this altitude, so he didn’t need to worry about gusts, but soon the wind would make it difficult to work. Not long after that, it would tear his suit apart. He reeled the tether in a few centimeters and kept working.

  The next step was to separate the leads so he could wrap insulating tape around them. It quickly became apparent, though, that the two wires were firmly stuck together: a combination of the heat from atmospheric pressure and that of the electricity arcing the gap had melted the copper, fusing a section of wire nearly three centimeters long. Getting them apart without severing either wire was going to be nearly impossible.

  The wind was rapidly getting worse. Huiskamp’s helmet was filled with a dull roar, and just keeping his hands in front of him required effort. Arc Zero trembled beneath him, and out of the corner of his eye he could see one of the thrusters firing in an attempt to keep the ungainly vessel pointed the right direction. Over the curve of Geneva’s surface, the glow of the sun was now visible. In a few minutes, the sun would rise, bathing him with its blinding white light and showering him with radiant heat. Already the suit’s cooling system was at its limit; he might very well pass out from heat exhaustion before the wind tore him limb from limb.

  Focus. You’ll never get the wires separated in time. Fine, leave the fused section. Wire around it. He scanned the toolkit and cursed. There was no wire.

  Forget it. You don’t need wire. Anything sufficiently conductive that will bridge the gap will do. He grabbed the wire cutters and cut one of the leads on either side of the fused section. Then he let go of the wire cutters, allowing the wind to carry it away, and picked up a socket wrench. He twisted one of the loose ends around the loop at the base of the wrench and wrapped the other around the wrench’s head. There was no time for soldering; he would just have to hope the current could overcome the resistance. The wind was blowing so hard now that he couldn’t keep his hands still. He’d have to forego insulation as well. The leads were now far enough apart that the current would be unlikely to jump the gap.

  He hit a button on his belt and the tether mechanism let out the rest of its line. For a moment, Huiskamp twirled in the wind, dragged helplessly along the hull, just out of reach of the nearest handhold. Straightening his body into a reasonable approximation of a straight line, he managed to stabilize, facing the hull. The hatch through which he had exited was about five meters to his right and two meters toward the leeward side of Arc Zero. To reach it, he would have to disconnect the tether. The roar in Huiskamp’s helmet was now deafening. He had set an alarm to tell him when the alignment window was five minutes away, but he couldn’t hear it. 5:00 flashed red at the edge of the helmet’s heads-up display. Then 4:59, 4:58…

  The first rays of the sun peaked over Geneva, and although the helmet visor darkened automatically, the reflection off the station’s hull was nearly blinding. He arched his body slightly, allowing the wind to push him toward the hull. His right foot hit metal, and he pushed off at an angle, directing his body toward the hatch. A few more steps and he was directly windward of the opening. There were no handholds on this side of the hatch; he would have to disconnect the tether and try to “fall” into it. At this angle, though, it would be nearly impossible: he would fly right past the hatch, scrabbling for something to hold onto.

  The sun was half-visible now, and it felt like he was flying headlong into a furnace. Even with the visor darkened, he had to squint against the glare. The hatch was barely visible as a dark blotch in a sea of blinding white light. He kicked hard off the surface and then straightened himself into a line, swinging out from the hull like a pendulum. When was near the zenith of his arc, about five meters from the surface, he hit a button on his belt, disconnecting the tether. He’d intended to head toward the hatch feet-first, but he’d released the tether a split-second too early and his momentum carried his feet too far out. The wind caught him and for a moment he was spinning head over heels. Then he straightened out with his head toward the hatch. The dark blotch shot toward him and he arched his body, using the wind to push him toward it. His helmet and upper body smashed into something hard, and he scrambled for a handhold before the wind swept him away. His left hand seized something like a handle and he clutched it hard as the wind pounded him against the hull. Unable to see what he was doing with his visor pressed against the hull, he grabbed the handle-thing with his other hand as well. Yes, it was definitely a handle. He’d gotten hold of the inside handle of the door. He fought the urge to let it go as the hot metal burned his hands through the gloves.

  He pulled himself up toward the hatch opening against the push of the blasting wind. Eighteen months in low gravity hadn’t done any favors for his upper body strength, but he managed to pull his shoulders past the opening. Grasping a handhold just inside the hatch, he scrabbled inside. Trembling and gasping for breath, he managed to get the hatch shut. The deceleration caused by the atmosphere pushed him gently toward the leeward wall of the airlock, and he walked along it until he came to the corridor. The heads-up display read 3:14.

  He leaped diagonally into the corridor, easily overcoming the slight gravity, and grasped one of the rungs that ran across the ceiling. Half-climbing, half-flying, he made his way back to the command deck and then pulled himself along the rail toward his chair. Not wanting to waste time strapping in, he maneuvered himself above his console, brought up the sysadmin interface, and hit the button to reset the breaker. This time it didn’t trip. He breathed a sigh of relief. His heads-up display read 1:45.

  Another warning flashed on the console: the propellant tank was empty. As the thrusters cut out, Arc Zero lurched sideways and Huiskamp was thrown across the room. He slammed headfirst into the wall so hard that he was momentarily stunned. When he regained his wits, he was floating in mid-air, with the command deck whirling about him. His visor was cracked and a warning on his heads-up display told him the suit was losing pressure. The air supply pump revved up, trying to compensate, and yet another warning popped up as his oxygen tank fell below ten percent. Arc Zero lurched again, and he had just enough time to throw up his hands before he slammed into the ceiling. He bounced and drifted back into the center of the room. The spinning had evidently pushed a little more propellant into the lines; Arc Zero suddenly stabilized around him. Floating in the middle of the command deck, everything was eerily calm. With no air to conduct the roar of the wind outside to his ears, all he could hear was the hiss of oxygen leaving his suit. If it weren’t for the vibrations of the wall panels around him, there would be no indication that Arc Zero was moving at all. His oxygen tank was at five percent.

  He drifted feet-first toward a wall. As he reached it, he bent his knees and then lightly pushed off, aiming his body toward the admiral’s chair. His heads-up display told him he had twenty-six seconds until the alignment window. If Arc Zero could just keep itself steady for another twenty-seven seconds, his message would go through. As he drifted toward the console, though, he could just make out the message TRANSMITTER OFFLINE.

  Huiskamp wanted to weep. Had the wire melted through again? Had his jerry-rigged repair come apart? Had the whole panel been blown off? The problem could be any of those things or a hundred others, and he had no time to go back out and fix it.


  Relax, he told himself. Don’t worry about what you can’t control. Maybe the jerking around caused a momentary short that tripped the breaker again. It was unlikely, but it was the only problem he could conceivably do something about. It’s worth a shot, anyway, he thought. Try resetting the breaker.

  He took hold of the headrest of the admiral’s chair to arrest his movement and then pulled himself toward the console. As he reached out to reset the breaker, Arc Zero lurched again, and he was thrown violently toward the wall behind the console. He slammed into the wall and was again momentarily dazed. Arc Zero spun about him. His heads-up display was telling him his oxygen level was at three percent, and the hissing got quieter as the pump struggled to keep the pressure in the suit up. He found himself panting to get enough oxygen. At this rate, the tank would be empty in less than a minute. About thirty seconds after that, he would pass out.

  Arc Zero was spinning so fast, he couldn’t even orient himself. I’m sorry, Jason, he thought, but he couldn’t even be sure what he was apologizing for. Maybe it was for failing to send this message. Maybe it was for failing to say a thousand other things.

  He bounced off a wall and was sent spinning wildly. For a moment, his spin nearly matched that of the command deck around him, and in his muddled state he thought Arc Zero had stabilized again. He grabbed hold of a chair as he drifted toward it, and then pushed himself toward the admiral’s chair. The console still said TRANSMITTER OFFLINE. His heads-up display told him there were eight seconds until the alignment window.

  Through the back of the chair he felt the rumbling of the thrusters as they fired again, and suddenly the cabin lurched counter-clockwise. He lost his hold on the chair and was once again floating free with the command center rotating around him.

  No, he thought. Arc Zero is stable. I’m spinning. His heads-up display told him she’d reach the alignment window in three seconds. Everything was lined up. If he could just reset the breaker, the transmitter might stay online long enough to send the message. But he was spinning in space with nothing to grab onto. If only the suit’s thrusters were working. Even the slightest amount of thrust would be enough to push him to the console.

  Huiskamp undid the latch of his air tank and unslung it from his back. He straddled the tank and then, straining his atrophied muscles, pulled at the air hose with everything he had. It wouldn’t budge. He forced himself to relax for a moment, took three deep breaths, and then pulled again. The line tore and separated. The lose end of hose connected to the tank flopped about lazily as air spilled into the cabin. He grabbed hold of it and directed it toward the ceiling. Nothing happened. The tank was empty. He felt his fingertips and his lips beginning to go numb, and his vision started to cloud at the edges.

  Seized by anger and only half-thinking, he hurled the empty tank away from himself. He began to drift toward the floor of the command deck. His foot struck the floor and he pushed off toward the console. As he seized the edge of the console, his heads-up display told him he was six seconds into the alignment window. He brought up the sysadmin interface and reset the breaker. There was still a chance.

  As he waited for the transmitter to report its status, the thrusters cut out and Arc Zero rolled to the left. Huiskamp lost his grip and tumbled right. Several wall panels sheared off, and one collided with him. Then the opposite wall shot toward him. He got his left arm up in time, but it didn’t help. He felt something in his shoulder snap, and there was a hiss of air followed by dead silence. The air was pulled from his lungs. Everything went dark, and for a moment Huiskamp thought he was dead. Then Arc Zero came apart, and he was falling again in the blasting wind. In front of him, bathed in the glow of the sun, were the vast mountain ranges of Geneva, so close that he thought he could reach out and touch their peaks. Then everything went black for good.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Akiva ben Yosef was troubled for some time after his visit to Eleazar of Modi’im. He tried to focus on his work, but he was surrounded by reminders of the war. Food was in short supply, and more and more of his students were leaving to join Simon ben Kosevah’s army. Not all the changes were for the worse: he was no longer bothered by stationarii patrolling the streets; they had been replaced by patrols of young Jewish men who were generally deferential to an old rabbi. The city of Beneberak and many others in the area were fully under control of the government Simon had established at Herodium. Jewish money had replaced Roman currency: coins had been minted with the inscription “For the Freedom of Yerusalem.” For the moment, at least, Judaea—with the notable exception of Yerusalem itself—was free.

  Yet there was something surreal and artificial about this new reality. Judaea was the eye of the storm, around which whirled the violent and unpredictable currents of war. The Romans had a firm hold on Yerusalem, as well as Samaria to the north and Edom to the south, as well as most of the land along the Mediterranean to the west. In between Judaea and the Roman-held territories, skirmishes occurred almost daily. Most often these were provoked by Roman incursions into Jewish territory, although not infrequently Jewish forces would ambush a Roman patrol or execute a lightning attack on a Roman camp. The violence had become a normal part of life—but that was part of the illusion.

  Well over half of the men of fighting age in Judaea—and many thousands from the surrounding provinces—had joined Simon ben Kosevah’s army. Many of those who did not fight supported the cause in other ways. There were holdouts—mostly merchants who benefitted from the influx of Roman currency, but there were also those, like Akiva, who disapproved of the attempts by Eleazar and other to sell Simon ben Kosevah as the moschiach.

  Barring a miracle, the Jewish forces would not increase greatly in number. Meanwhile, word had arrived that many thousands of Roman troops were currently being ferried across the Mediterranean. When they arrived, the storm would hit Judaea with full force. Enthusiasm among the people remained high, but Simon ben Kosevah and his lieutenants were acutely aware of the impending crisis. Just this morning—for the second time—Akiva was visited by men representing the rebellion and pleading for Akiva to give it his public support. He did not know the first group, but among the second was Yehonathan ben Harsom, a rabbi he had long known and respected. Akiva politely declined once again, but the pleas weighed on him. Yehonathan was no firebrand; he spoke with care and was diligent in his study of the Torah. If his studies had convinced him Simon ben Kosevah was the moschiach, then was Akiva mistaken? Was it only his own pride that kept him from seeing the truth?

  At last, unable to concentrate on his work, Akiva informed his wife of his intention to go into the desert to fast and pray. He left the next morning at sunrise, traveling south toward Beit Shemesh. He brought with him no food, but only a skin of water. There was no water in the wadis this time of year, but he knew of some springs where he could fill the skin. There were only a few scattered small towns in this area; he would be unlikely to be disturbed in his meditations, either by Jew or Roman.

  For three days he walked in the desert. The nights were cool but not cold; he slept curled up within his robe, a stone for his pillow. He had intended to return before dusk on the third day, but he ran out of water and became disoriented in the heat. He sat down to rest until the air cooled. Not knowing which direction he faced, he waited for the stars to appear in order to orient himself. Growing impatient, he strained his eyes trying to make out the first stars of the night.

  Suddenly a bright star appeared before him, seeming to fall to the Earth from directly overhead. It was visible for nearly a minute, and then it disappeared below the horizon. Akiva excitedly got to his feet and walked toward the place where the star had fallen. It soon grew dark, and he found himself in a valley wending through the hills. He could see little, but his feet found sure footing on the valley floor. After several hours, he emerged from the valley onto a plain. A breeze wafted over him, carrying the scent of the Mediterranean.

  The sky was lightening behind him when he saw a fire in the di
stance. He walked toward it. After a time, it became clear that it was a campfire. Several men stood around it, engaged in an animated discussion. As Akiva grew closer, he saw three figures lying on the ground nearby. From their movements, they appeared to be bound.

  “They are Roman spies,” said one of the men standing by the fire. He spoke in Aramaic. “Let us kill them and be done with it.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The silence on the bridge was broken by the voice of Communications Officer Josh Creed. “Sir, we’re receiving a transmission.”

  Jason was momentarily speechless. They hadn’t heard from anyone in the IDL since Renaissance had been destroyed three weeks earlier, and they were too far out to receive stray broadcasts from the Geneva system. The Cho-ta’an ships that had taken out Renaissance and Philadelphia were probably close on their tail, but the Cho-ta’an weren’t known for trying to make contact before shooting. He could think of only one possibility.

  “Kilimanjaro?”

  “No, sir. It’s coming from behind us. Apparently from the Geneva system.”

  “Apparently?”

  “It’s unsigned and unencrypted, sir. It appears to be, uh, addressed to you, sir.”

  Jason’s console lit up with the message:

  JASON—GO THRU C GATE TO SOL AT .3LS. WHATS DONE IS DONE

  “What in the hell…?” Jason murmured. “That’s the entire message?”

  “Yes, sir. It repeats three times before cutting off. It may be a Chotie trick, sir.”

  “The Cho-ta’an are not known for their subtle ruses.”