November 13th, 1011
VMB Headquarters
Hunfeld, Bronzehill, Griffonian Empire

"They're not serious."

The dog in front of him shifted uneasily from paw to paw, clearly uncomfortable about the question. It didn't help that it was rhetorical anyway, so answering wouldn't be in her best interest, but neither would remaining silent. In the end, locked by indecision, silent she remained.

"They're not serious," he repeated, looking around the room. “Gods above and tunnels below, I hope -you’re- not serious.”

“They’re serious, Hargrim,” said Lena Blechpfote, leaning forward over the sheaf of papers before her. “It’s come down from Bronzekreuz, straight from the Bronze Council. The Count’s orders, and he has his orders from Griffenheim. They want us to increase the County’s total coal output to seventy-five million tonnes this year, and that falls primarily on us and our workers.”

“Impossible! Can’t be done!” retorted Hargrim Growlsh, Chairman of the Vereinigte Minenarbeiter von
Bronzehügel (VMB) as he too held up the stack of typwritten reports and letters. “I’d expect the aristos to just rubberstamp this, but the Count? He’s been a loyal friend of the people above and below ground, and now he asks this of us?”

“I told you, he has his orders from Griffenheim. If you look at-”

“What happened to our autonomy, verdammt!” Hargrim ranted, smacking the papers back down on the table. “What was the point in nationalizing the Grover V Industrial Park if we’re just going to end up taking demands from the same griffs we took it all away from!”

“That’s not the same and you know it, Hargrim,” said the VMB treasurer Stotchel Knöchelbrecher. He was a hulking brute of a mastiff, a veteran of both labor disputes himself and serving in the Count’s own government as a tax collector. “It’s an Imperial decree, there’s nothing to contest. There’s a war on, in case you missed that. That means more coal for the factories, for ships, to send to the frontline, to the foundries-”

“I know where it all goes, dammit!” Hargrim snarled, hackles raised and fangs out. Stotchel rose from his seat, his bulk reminding everydog present about his past working the other side of the rope. But the Chairman didn’t back down. “Do the nobles, the kompaniegriffs, the Count, the Regents, do they all know what it’s going to take to do that? A two percent increase alone would require massive shift extension at all the sites! Expansion of mineshafts! More trucks for transport! And they want us to up coal production by a whopping ten percent? That’s practically slave labor! Unless the business leaders are willing to do massive amounts of hiring, which of course gives us more worker membership! That’s the last thing they’ll agree to!”

He wasn’t far off. According to the figures, ever since the revitalization of Imperial industry and the nationalization of the Grover V industrial park, coal production from the County of Bronzehill had been on the rise since 1008, where total yearly output then had topped out at sixty-two million tonnes of coal. This despite no significant investment or new machinery being brought in, mostly increased through a slight shift extension and larger workforce, despite the political tensions across the Empire. It might not have sounded like much, but it was a whopping two million tonnes above the previous highmark of the year 1000, which had been a clean sixty million tonnes. But the number being asked now was to take what had been accomplished by sheer grit and push it again by another ten million tonnes extracted for the yearly rate. Not quite a ten percent increase, closer to seven by his quick figures, but the point remained the same.

“Are they?” asked Stotchel, turning to Lena. As the business manager, it was Lena’s job to coordinate with various industry leaders and the management of mining industries across Bronzehill, or at least across the Raven Lakes district. Lena sighed, going through her sheaf of paperwork as she considered her answer. For a moment, things were still in the office. The other dogs held their breath, carefully considering what Lena might be about to say. Finally, the terrier cleared her throat.

“Some are. Initial reports state they’re willing to expand their workforce by twenty-five percent to make up the shortfall. With worker protections and the right to join our union.”

“Some. But not all?” Hargrim caught on, raising an eyebrow. Lena shuffled some more as she looked up from her reports once more.

“Most of those willing to expand draw the line at ten percent, with a provision that they not be allowed to join our ranks for at least a year.”

“Lena, how many of the business owners were even willing to talk about mechanization? About investments in better infrastructure? Much less expansion of the workforce?” Hargrim reiterated. Lena finally sighed in frustration, tossing her own papers down.

“Dammit, fine! Only about a third, from the reports at the Bronze Council! Are you happy now?”

A howl of uproarious protest rang out. A third of the colossal mining industry of Bronzehill, a third of the capitalists and the rich dogs and griffons who owned the companies, the nobles who had inherited their lands and titles. Bronzehill was the most liberal of all the vassals that had stayed loyal to the Imperial crown, and in exchange for their intense loyalty their affairs were mostly left alone to be sorted out as they saw fit. But this also meant that the modern concept of labor unions (evolved from medieval guilds) and the millennia old concept of aristocratic entitlement butted heads so hard and so often it put dueling buffalo to shame. Bad enough they had to deal with suspicious police ‘inspections’ and lecherous industrial heads trying to scrape every pfenning they could out of their workers. However they saw it, whichever line they stayed on, the upper leadership of the VMB knew a bum deal when they saw one. As they were orders straight from the Regents, from the crown itself, the nobles could do whatever they wanted as long as they obeyed the order. How it got done wasn’t Griffenheim’s concern. The unions, and by extension the workers, were getting the short end.

“We have to do something!” howled Hargrim once he got it under control. “We have to call an emergency meeting! Get the representatives in here and vote!”

“Vote for what? The quota is set and the nobles have made their voice heard!” sputtered Karl Liebarknecht, the VMB’s lawyer. “We’re literally the last ones to know about all this!”

“Yes, and they want us to rub the workers' bellies and tell them this is for the good of all, to swallow this crap and work themselves to the bone for the war effort!” yelled Gerta Tiefgründig, the Vice-Chairman. She too bared her teeth in fury. “You’re the legal agent! It’s your job to work up a case!”

“Against dozens of private companies? You’re mad!”

“Strike!”

The room suddenly tapered off, all eyes swiveling to stare at the one who had spoken. In the corner, tapping quietly at his typewriter’s keys, was Tekton Heldour, the VMB’s press manager. It was his job to manage and monitor the union’s image in the media, and if possible coordinate with loyal newspapers in order to release stories to the VMB’s interest. He had been the one to speak, and now everydog was staring at him he seemed a bit nervous. He wasn’t a big dog, more along the lines of a mutt runt who often went unnoticed at these meets when they were held. Tonight, however, he clearly meant to make himself heard.

“If they’re not willing to negotiate, to accept the fact that they need to expand their workforce and invest in modern machinery, not just lengthen the shifts and make the workplace more dangerous as a result, we should call for a strike. A general strike, not just of coal workers. All the mine workers in the district. Tartarus, maybe we should kick this upstairs and demand a strike across the whole County.”

“Maar’s ass, whelp! Do you -want- them to send the Landwehr to put us down?” Stotchel blurted out. Having been the only former government employee among them, he knew precisely what their response would be. “Cut into their profits, and the nobles might send strikebreakers at us. Cause a resource crisis that would hinder the Empire right when we’ve just been invaded and they might just bomb us!”

“You can’t bomb an underground city, Stotchel,” said Karl, always the one to jump on small details. The big ex-tax collector waved a paw dismissively.

“The point is, Aquileia is invading from the south, the Revolutionaries are invading from the north. Bad enough the Empire is now fighting at all, they’re fighting republics. You know what that means? Any form of liberal organization is going to be labeled a socialist, republican or harmonist group. Eyr’s mercy, they might even sick the MfÖS on us.”

“Let’s not start on that,” Karl objected, though he was quickly overridden as Lena barked “Why? We know they’ve slipped agents into our ranks before! Imagine if they were actually given the power to take us down!”

“I agree with the pup, we need to call for a general strike! They have to know we won’t stand for this!”

“Bad enough we might get some hired landsknechts called down on our picket line, what if the Landwehr sends panzers in? They’re certainly going to side with the nobles!”

“There’s nothing saying we can’t negotiate this again! Just because they’re saying no now doesn’t mean we can’t get them to return to the table-”

“They’re going to use the war to turn the public against us! Why would they need to say anything to us?”

“Mobilize! We must mobilize the working class now! Gather the picks, the rifles, everything we have! We have to march on Bronzekreuz before it’s too late!”

“ENOUGH!”

The entire room fell silent, looking over to where Hargrim had slumped into his chair, having just barked the statement aloud. All eyes were on their chairman, wondering what to say, wondering what -he- would say and what they were all going to do. They were scared, he could see it. Not just at the possibility of what the response would be, but what could happen if they did nothing. Tens of thousands of dogs and griffons worked in those mines, hauling valuable coal, steel, bauxite, copper and many, many other mineral ores to the surface to feed the industrial fires of Bronzekreuz, Griffenheim, Osnabeak and a dozen other major industrial centers. Their district was only a small part of the greater network of unions, all of which strove to protect workers and fight for their decency of living and representation. Doing nothing was just as bad as making the wrong choice in this instance, for doing nothing and letting the miners be subjected to these hellish work conditions would lose them all the power and representation dogs before them had worked decades to get, bought with blood and sweat and destroyed lives.

Finally, Hargrim shifted, looking out over the room. His jowls drooped even lower, as he gave the only order he could.

“Call the representatives. We do this the way we’ve always done it; we vote. And gods help us all.”

Author's Note

I know, something in a war anthology that's not directly about war! So, this chapter was a request by one of my fans, who has been asking me for details about the Empire outside just the factors of war. I said 'say less' and it was off to the races. This story has been staring me in the face for weeks now, though I feel satisfied enough to finally publish this bit. I may resolve it with a second part, maybe not, depending on my prior commitments and time.

In the meantime, I hope you guys enjoy this little slice of labor life!