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

by Robert Kroese

  Schwartz lay on her belly on top of her body armor, naked except for her boots and her underwear; the metal surface of Freedom’s nose was so hot that she needed insulation more than protection from projectiles—both to protect her skin from burns and to prevent the waves of heat emanating from the metal from distorting her vision. The sniper rifle was set up on a tripod in front of her, aimed in the direction of the approaching boats. She lay at the center of Freedom’s nose, a shallow dome that was nearly level at the center and grew gradually steeper until it was near-vertical about twenty meters from her in all directions. Just below her field of vision was a row of inset ladder rungs that led down to the main hatch and continued into the water far below.

  From her vantage point, she saw four boats on their way, and more were being loaded on the shore. It was unclear what the Romans’ strategy was regarding the spaceship, but presumably it was roughly the same strategy they had pursued in putting down the Judaean revolt: keep throwing soldiers at it until they had it under control.

  Schwartz took aim at the man nearest her in the prow of the boat. For the past half-hour, she had been practicing tracking the sea swells with her scope, developing a feel for the rhythm. Still, precise shots would be difficult; she would have to aim for the center of mass and hope for the best. No one with officer insignia presented himself, so she trained her sights on the man farthest up the prow. She didn’t have ammo for warning shots and doubted they would do any good anyway. She squeezed the trigger, and a moment later the man reeled and fell to the deck. While the oarsmen continued to row, the men in the prow tended to the fallen soldier or looked toward Freedom, trying to determine where the shot came from. Several of them had bows at the ready. One man pointed right at Schwartz, and she shot him next. The boat was now less than twenty meters out, and the oarsmen continued to row.

  “Come on,” Schwartz murmured. “Turn around.” She fired again, winging an oarsman on the starboard side. The others continued to row. A man near the center of the boat was shouting orders and pointing toward Freedom. She made out the phrase Modo unus homo. The Romans knew they were facing a single sniper, who couldn’t cover all sides of the ship. The open hatch was on the opposite side; if they could get past her line of fire, they could reach the ladder and climb up to her. It wouldn’t take her long to reposition her rifle, but more boats were on their way. If she didn’t stop the first one, she’d soon be overwhelmed. Olson was the only one with a gun left on Freedom, and he was safely ensconced on the bridge, his right arm in a sling. She knew too that just inside the hatch waited several Roman sentries, who would have heard the gunshots. Very soon, someone would climb up to investigate.

  She managed to take out two more men before the boat slipped out of her field of fire. Twelve men remained on the boat, eight of them manning the oars; the wounded oarsmen had been replaced by one of the others. Schwartz pressed herself flat against the hull as a volley of arrows clattered around her. When she looked up, the boat was hidden behind the hull. Grabbing her pistol from beside her, she got to her feet and moved quickly down the gradual slope of Freedom’s nose until the boat came into view again. She aimed her pistol at a man drawing a bead on her with an arrow, but as her finger touched the trigger, a sound behind her prompted her to turn. She put three rounds into the breastplate of a soldier not two steps away from her. He staggered backwards, dropping his gladius, which fell with a clang against the hull and then slid into the sea. Another man, just to his left and a step behind, charged toward Schwartz, gladius leveled at her naked belly. She fired three more shots, and he fell too. The two corpses slid down the hull and disappeared.

  Glancing in the direction from which the two had come, Schwartz saw no more men climbing up; hopefully these had been the only two sent to investigate the shots. By now, the lead boat had to be approaching the ladder, but she had a minute or so before they could get to her. She flopped on her belly and oriented the rifle’s scope toward the next boat, which was now only thirty meters away. Another tailed it fifty meters back. No more shooting to intimidate; she would just have to slow them down.

  She took aim at the nearest oarsman on the starboard side and fired. He fell, and she fired at the man behind him, and the next man, and the next. Let them row in circles for a while. She grabbed the pistol again and got to her feet, turning just in time to see a man on the far side of the nose loose an arrow. She arched her back and let her legs go limp; the arrow whizzed past, a finger’s width from her cheek. She landed hard on her rear, firing several shots at the man. Her aim was wide, and the man pulled another arrow from his quiver and strung it.

  Schwartz took a breath, aimed, fired again, hitting him in the chest. The man grunted and fell to his knees, dropping his bow and arrow. Trembling and panting, he tore off his helmet, revealing a thick mat of red hair. For a moment, it looked like he might get to his feet, but then he convulsed, vomited onto the hull, and collapsed. Another man, also armed with a bow, came up behind him, and a third was ascending the ladder. Schwartz fired four shots at the man with the bow, and he staggered to the side, blood gushing from underneath his breastplate in torrents to the hull. He lost his footing in the slippery mess and fell, his helmet clanging against the hull before he rolled and slid off the side into the surf.

  The pistol was empty; Schwartz tossed it aside. The man directly ahead of her was drawing an arrow from his quiver. The man behind him reached the top of the ladder and drew his gladius. Schwartz leapt to her feet, sprinted across the hull, and launched herself into a full-body kick, slamming her heel against the center of the front man’s breastplate. He grunted, let his arrow loose in a wild shot, and stumbled backwards into the man behind him. The second man, desperate not to fall into the water, dropped to all fours. The archer, still trying to get his footing, backed into the second man, lost his balance completely, and tumbled over the side, taking a third man, who was just coming up the ladder, with him.

  Schwartz landed on her side and rolled several times before managing to splay her arms and legs wide to keep from tumbling over the edge herself. She lay for a moment on her back, panting from exertion and adrenaline, hot metal scalding her skin. The man with the gladius, still on his hands and knees, grinned as he crawled toward her.

  Mika Schwartz, one hundred fifty-eight centimeters and fifty kilos, was under no illusions that she could go toe-to-toe with a well-trained male soldier—particularly when she was nearly naked and unarmed. She knew holds and throws that a Roman soldier wouldn’t be familiar with, but one mistake was all he needed. And even if she managed to dispatch him, there were countless more on the way. She needed to finish this quickly.

  The man crawled slowly up the hull toward her, knowing time was on his side. Another helmet came into view at the ladder. Schwartz got to her feet and glanced around her. The sniper rifle was too far away, and her knife lay on her body armor next to it. Her eyes fell to the bow lying at the side of the redheaded man, some ten paces away. The man with the gladius followed her gaze and smiled again, tempting her to try it. He cautiously got to his feet, wary of the smears of blood from his fallen comrade.

  Schwartz sprinted at him. When she was only a few steps away, she threw her upper body backward and twisted. Her hip hit the hull, blood and sweat commingling beneath her as she slid toward the man. He swung downward with his gladius, too slow: her ankle hooked behind his boot and her leg snapped backwards. The boot slid sideways, and the blade of the gladius slammed harmlessly against the hull. The man fell on his rear, arms and legs splayed, but he managed to hold onto his sword and arrest his slide. He grinned again. Schwartz got to her feet, trying to get to the bow.

  The man swung his foot, tripping her and sending her sprawling. She tried to grab the bow, but it bounced off her knuckles, skittering toward the edge. Something hard and sharp bit into her breast. She clutched at the thing and rolled onto her back. The gladius came down next to her with a crash. The man was on his knees, scrambling toward her. He pulled the sword back to
strike again, but this time she lunged at him, gripping an arrow shaft tightly. Before he could strike, she plunged it into his quadricep, just above the knee. The man howled, and she rolled away from him. Another man approached, stepping cautiously over pools of blood, gladius drawn. She grabbed the hilt of the redheaded man’s sword, still in its sheath at his side, and drew it in time to parry a blow intended to take her head off. Now off balance, the man took a moment to steady himself rather than press the attack. Staying low, Schwartz swung at the man’s legs. He took a step back, and Schwartz hurled the gladius at him. He threw up his hands, slipped in blood, and fell again. He slid a short distance but stopped before sliding off the edge. Yet another man was making his way up the ladder.

  Meanwhile, the other man had pulled the arrow from his leg and advanced toward her. Schwartz scrambled toward the body of the redheaded man, pulled the quiver off his shoulder, and then lunged for the bow. Bow in hand, she pulled an arrow, nocked it, and turned just in time to loose it toward the man. It bounced harmlessly off his breastplate, and he stepped toward her, bringing down his gladius. She fell to the side, and the tip of the blade sliced into her arm just below the shoulder. Crying out, she scrambled away, bloody fingers desperately clutching at arrow feathers. She was now perilously close to the edge; there was nowhere left to run. The man with the gladius advanced slowly, limping on his injured leg. At last Schwartz’s fingers closed around an arrow. She pulled it from the quiver, nocked it, and turned her body to face the man. He brought the sword back for a backhanded swing. Her fingers shaking, she took aim.

  The man laughed. He let his arm fall and then slid the gladius back in its sheath. He stretched out his arms, facing her. “Incipe,” he said, tapping his chest. “Aditum solum do, pulchrae.”

  Schwartz breathed deeply, willing her muscles to relax. A center mass shot wasn’t going to do it this time; she needed to hit bare flesh. “This is for Jerusalem, asshole,” she said, and let the arrow fly. It hit him in the soft flesh under his chin, penetrating clear into his brain. The man stared at Schwartz for a moment, pure shock on his face, and then slumped to the hull with a thunk. “Requiescat in pace.”

  There was no time to celebrate: three men with gladii approached, and no doubt there were others coming up the ladder. She had taken too long. By this time, the other boats would have arrived. There were two hundred soldiers aboard Freedom and more on their way. Olson had given her a simple task: cut off the stream of men heading toward the ship and get the hatch closed. But she had failed. Freedom couldn’t launch with its hatches open. The Romans would take full control of the ship and take everyone aboard prisoner. Freedom itself would fall under the control of the Emperor, and she couldn’t begin to imagine what horrors that would precipitate. Twenty-third century technology in the hands of the Roman Empire!

  The three men closed on her. Her last shot had been a lucky one; she might take out one more man if her luck held, but not three of them. The quiver only had a few arrows left, and many more men would be on the way. She’d backed up as far as she could; any farther and the slope would be too steep for her to keep her footing. She considered throwing herself over the edge but rejected the idea. She’d never escape by swimming. Better to cut an artery and bleed out than let the Romans capture her. She took the arrow she’d been about to nock, flipped it around and gripped it in her fist just under the head. She took a deep breath to steady her shaking hand, preparing to plunge the arrow into her jugular.

  Several gunshots sounded in quick succession. The man in the center staggered toward Schwartz and fell; she had to roll to the side to avoid him. He hit the hull with a clang, slipped and scrabbled in pools of his own blood for a moment, then skittered down the side. The man farthest to Schwartz’s right tried to turn to face the gunman, got tripped up by his own feet, and fell over the edge. The last man, on more level ground, managed to get turned around, but took a bullet in the face before he could attack. The gladius fell from his hand, and he sank to the hull and collapsed.

  “You should see what I can do with my good hand,” said Olson, standing before her, gun in his left hand. His right arm was still in a sling.

  Schwartz got to her feet and ran to him. “Give me that,” she said, extracting the gun from his hand.

  “Ow! Jesus, Schwartz, you’re wel—”

  She brushed past him and stopped to fire a shot through the helmet of another man coming up the ladder. The man went limp and fell.

  “Let’s go,” she said, stepping carefully toward the ladder. Peering over the edge, she saw several more men ascending. She fired at the top man until he fell, then dispatched the man below him. The slide shot back, empty.

  “Ammo?” she shouted.

  “That was the last magazine,” said Olson.

  “You didn’t really think this through, did you?”

  “I cleared the airlock!” Olson protested. “But they keep coming!”

  “You should have closed the hatch when you had a chance.”

  “And leave you up here?”

  “Yes!”

  Schwartz watched as the men continued to climb, hand over hand toward her. They reminded her of ants: dumb, but persistent and seemingly infinite in number. The hatch was some five meters down, the nearest man another five meters below that. She could probably get to the hatch before they did, but Olson, with his broken collarbone, would move slower.

  She moved to the body of the man Olson had shot in the head. “Help me with this!” she shouted, grabbing the man’s ankles. Olson took one of the man’s wrists and did his best to help her drag the man across the hull. When they got to the steeper part, the corpse slid easily, and Schwartz had to jump to keep from being pulled down with it. The armored body fell, crashing into the man farthest up the ladder. Schwartz glanced over in time to see several men splashing into the water. Nearby were two boats, both full of more soldiers. The ladder, for the moment, was clear, but one of the boats was almost under it.

  “Quickly!” Schwartz shouted, allowing her body to slide down the blisteringly hot hull toward the ladder. She caught the top rung and swung her body over until her feet caught another. She climbed down as quickly as her limbs would move. Praying that the airlock was still clear, she descended past it. Olson followed, climbing one-handed. By the time he was halfway to the hatch, the boat had gotten into position and three men were on their way up the ladder.

  “Schwartz, get inside!”

  “You first! I’ll hold them off!”

  “With what?” Olson shouted, but he kept descending. He was almost to the hatch now.

  The first man was now within arm’s reach of her. Muscles rippled in his arm; if he got a hold of her, he’d tear her off the ladder like Olson pulling open a mealpak. He snatched at her right ankle, but she pulled it away a fraction of a second before his hand could close on it. He grabbed for her left, and again she evaded his grasp. Tiring of the game, the man went for his gladius. Schwartz let go of the ladder and let her full body weight come down on him, her bare feet slamming into his breastplate just under his chin.

  The man’s feet slipped off the rung, and he hung one-handed, his right hand clutching his sword, with a small, nearly naked woman standing on his chest. He tried to swing the gladius at her, but the breastplate constrained his movement too much to consummate the blow. Schwartz gripped a rung at forehead-level with both hands, pulled herself up as high as she could, and then let her weight come down on the man again. He grunted but still did not let go. Above her, Olson had reached the hatch and was trying to maneuver his body inside the airlock. The man beneath her discarded his gladius, realizing it was not going to help him. Schwartz pulled herself up again as the man reached for her. She came down hard, willing herself to weigh more than fifty kilos. The man’s left hand slipped from the rung, but his right clamped tight around her ankle.

  Schwartz, her hands slick with blood and sweat, clung desperately to the rung, a hundred kilos of Roman soldier hanging from her ankle. She tried t
o kick at his hand, but her bare foot just slid ineffectually along his fingers. He twisted and writhed, trying to get his other hand locked around her ankle as well, but she kicked it away. Schwartz saw Olson looking helplessly down at her from the airlock.

  “Close… the… damn… hatch!” she gasped.

  “Not without you. Come on, Schwartz, fight!”

  Again the man clutched at her ankle with his left hand and she kicked it away, every motion causing pain to shoot through her joints and tendons. Her shoulders were being pulled almost out of their sockets. Just let go, she told herself. Make it easy on Olson. Fall to the water, taking two or three men with you. Try not to hit the boat. The water is deep here; just swim down until you pass out and you’ll drown. No danger of the Romans torturing you for your knowledge of automatic weapons or the internal combustion engine then.

  She’d almost gotten up the nerve to do it—for the second time in the past few minutes!—when she felt the man’s fingers slipping. He made one last desperate grab for her foot with his other hand, and she kicked it away, feeling her own fingers beginning to give out. Just a few seconds longer….

  Then it was over: the man’s hand slipped free and he was falling. The men below him on the ladder pressed themselves against the hull as he fell and managed to keep their grip as he tumbled past and landed with a crash in the boat. Men continued to pour up the ladder toward Schwartz.

  She got her feet on a rung and clambered up, fighting numbness and pain in her arms. Olson helped her into the airlock. He hit a button on the wall, and the outer door slid shut. Schwartz collapsed on the floor, drenched with sweat and blood and gasping for breath. The dull clang of metal against the thick carbon steel of the airlock sounded around them. “Come on,” Olson said, holding out his good hand to her. “We’re safe from the ones outside, but more will be on their way from the lower levels.”

  She groaned and took his hand, getting to her feet. They exited the airlock into the corridor, and Olson closed the inner door. They ran down the hall toward an access tunnel that would take them to the bridge.