Chapter 116: No Way Out and Humiliation

In the Federation, the union’s money primarily comes from two sources.

One is social donations—for example, capitalists at the docks who want to maintain close ties with the union know the key is to donate.

But this isn’t absolute; some companies operate outside ordinary rules or don’t believe they need to donate, since they provide jobs and have already done their part for society.

Not every company donates monthly; Federation capitalists reject coercive fundraising, but on average, they contribute roughly 1,800 to 2,000 credits per month to the union annually.

The second source is worker dues; given that dockworkers’ incomes are among the lowest in the industry, dock union dues are set at two percent of base monthly wages.

For a ship cleaner earning 33 credits a month, the monthly dues amount to 66 cents.

Dues vary by industry, and some states allow higher rates, while others impose strict limits.

Generally, ordinary industries charge two to three percent; for higher-paying unions like the auto workers’, it’s three to five percent of base wages.

Jincheng City has two major ports; the main port, where the union is headquartered, is Jincheng, and the neighboring one is Xingang.

Together, the two ports have eleven piers, with approximately seven thousand workers registered and accounted for.

Lans’s three thousand-plus work cards, and others obtained through alternative means to work here, are not listed as union members, since most cardholders aren’t dockworkers themselves.

Even if they were, once they rent out their cards, they stop paying dues.

Seven thousand workers, paying 66 cents each monthly, generate roughly 5,000 credits in union income per month—stable and predictable.

This seems like a decent sum?

But the dock union has multiple offices and departments, with a core team of over seventy people, occasionally expanding temporarily.

Ordinary staff earn 42 credits per month, matching Jincheng’s average income.

Above them are office supervisors and deputy supervisors, department heads and deputy heads, plus a president and three vice presidents, whose salaries total over 4,000 credits.

That leaves the dock union with only about 3,000 credits per month after payroll.

This doesn’t include daily wear-and-tear, operational expenses, or the workers’ club costs; monthly surplus hovers around 1,000 credits.

If they skip worker leisure activities and close the club two fewer days, surplus increases; otherwise, it decreases.

They’re well aware of the cause of insufficient income: low dues and illegal immigration.

Illegal immigrants flood the docks; currently, about twelve thousand workers labor here, over five thousand of whom are non-members or illegal immigrants.

Illegal immigrants make up the vast majority.

If they paid dues, the union would gain an extra 3,000 credits monthly; if dues rose from two to three percent, it would gain at least 5,000 more.

But it’s difficult.

President Scott glanced at the accountant. “How much do we have left in the account?”

The accountant, a thirty-six-year-old married woman with a slight build, replied, “Just under 3,000 credits.”

President Scott frowned. “That little?”

He recalled, “Didn’t we have over 20,000 credits at the end of the first half of the year?”

“Where did all that money go?”

The accountant’s tone turned sharp; she felt accused. “You forgot about the two-month protest? Many were injured and lost income during the shutdown—we spent it all on them.”

“If you want to audit, I’ll bring the ledgers—but you’ll need two people to help me. I can’t move them alone!”

President Scott rubbed his forehead. “Sorry—I forgot about that.”

The anti-immigrant demonstrations lasted just over twenty days, but from outbreak to resolution, nearly two months passed.

During that time, chaos reigned on the docks; many were injured, and capitalists refused to honor workplace injury compensation policies.

Social insurance didn’t cover accidental injuries, so injured workers had no medical reimbursement and turned to the union for help.

It’s part of the union’s duties, though the costs are small.

A few credits here, a hundred there—but there are so many dockworkers. Thankfully, no major casualties occurred, yet the union’s funds vanished quickly.

Holding onto 2,000 or 3,000 credits as emergency reserves was their maximum effort.

Only now could they understand why insurance managers refused coverage.

Some workers deliberately cut their fingers, came over demanding five credits, then wrapped them in gauze and walked away—there were plenty like that.

President Scott rubbed his temples. “What if we made the capitalists pay?”

He looked at Vaughn, the vice president whose main role was maintaining ties with capitalists.

Vaughn shook his head. “Seven thousand workers belong to different companies—we can’t convince them to do this.”

“It might cost ten thousand credits or more. Do you think they’d pay?”

President Scott’s head throbbed. “This is all because of… Lans.”

“I remember there were complaints against him and his office—did you summon him?”

Vaughn nodded. “I planned to tell you about this separately.”

President Scott studied him; after a moment of silence, he set the topic aside.

“We’ll talk later.” He turned to the others. “Think of solutions—reach out to the dock capitalists.”

“See if they’re willing to pay.”

“After all, workers in uniform do look… better.”

Several department heads smiled faintly, then quickly suppressed it.

But “better-looking” alone won’t make capitalists open their wallets.

President Scott seemed to realize this, waving irritably. “Meeting’s adjourned. Vaughn, come to my office.”

Inside his office, door shut, Vaughn prompted, “That twenty-credit payment.”

President Scott blinked. “From Lans?”

Vaughn stared, exasperated. “I told you about this.”

President Scott gripped his chair arm. “That’s problematic—I recall he donated 300 credits too.”

Vaughn nodded. “That money’s still in a separate account.”

Because Lans said it was for those in need, not the union, so it never entered the union’s public ledger.

Who received it, how it was distributed, how much each got—if Lans doesn’t ask, they won’t say.

In other words, beyond the president and vice presidents, even the accountant didn’t know about the 300-credit private account.

With this money plus the 20-credit nutrition subsidy already received, President Scott could no longer view Lans and his office with impartial neutrality.

“Were the complaints against his office resolved?”—after taking so much, he owed some gesture, even if he’d just planned to use it to harass Lans for revenge.

Vaughn nodded. “All resolved.”

President Scott thumped his armrest. “If we can’t push it forward, drop it.”

He felt regretful; in the Federation’s union structure, city unions are the lowest tier, above them being “State Dockworkers’ Union” (in some states), “Federation Dockworkers’ Union,” and “International Dockworkers’ Union.”

The International Dockworkers’ Union is a sham—few nations respond. But the Federation Dockworkers’ Union holds real power.

It controls dockworker conditions across the entire Federation. If President Scott gained approval from above to launch a strike in Jincheng,

the Federation Dockworkers’ Union president could trigger a nationwide dockworker strike!

He was just over fifty—he wanted to see what lay above. But so many others wanted the same; countless Federation cities had ports and docks, all vying upward.

He had a slight edge—this was Jincheng—but even with advantage, he needed undeniable capability.

If handled well, this might be an opportunity—but now, there was no clear path.

He knew well: capitalists would never agree to fund new uniforms.

No law supported the union in demanding this—he could only persuade others to pay, not force them.

Launching a strike over their refusal to fund uniforms? Unless he wanted to be investigated, he wouldn’t even consider it.

Strikes are capitalists’ greatest fear—but they can’t be launched casually; timing must be perfect, or it’s a crime!

As President Scott pondered his chances of advancement, Vaughn felt he’d repaid Lans sufficiently, while dockworkers themselves discussed the new uniforms.

“Found out anything?” asked one worker, idling while tightening bolts, a slightly higher-status man among them.

A younger worker nodded. “Yes—it’s from the office that issued the work cards, not the company or docks.”

“Issued by an office?” the strong worker exclaimed. “Is their boss some kind of philanthropist?”

“Ask them—can we join too?”

Free uniforms and two pairs of gloves—worth about 1.5 credits if bought—now given away for free.

They’d heard that if clothes or gloves wore out, they could bring the damaged ones and exchange them for new ones.

Why do some heavy laborers work bare-assed—

Not a joke; many factory workers wear only underwear, or nothing at all.

One reason: the workshop is scorching—heat equipment and steam quickly soak clothes in sweat.

Another: clothing wears out fast, especially on docks or in chemical-laden environments, where replacing clothes every two or three months is normal.

For the wealthy, over a credit is nothing—less than a drink at a bar.

But for ordinary workers, if they can save it, they will.

It’s a curious phenomenon: they’d rather spend forty cents on a drink at a bar than one credit on new or secondhand clothes—Federation consumption habits are always odd.

Just then, a worker in uniform, having just urinated, passed by and said, “Hey!” The group jumped.

He looked around and spotted them.

He wanted to leave—local Federation dockworkers here could be cruel, bullying immigrants for fun: shoving them, punching them, forcing them to crawl and bark like dogs.

Never overestimate human morality, nor underestimate the pure evil in people’s hearts.

He didn’t want to approach, fingertips pressed to his chest, and said, “Me?”

The strong worker nodded. “Of course you. What’s your name?”

“Jamie.” Jamie stood frozen, scalp prickling, but had no choice but to continue.

He shouldn’t have gone to the toilet—why not just piss by the sea?

He swore he would never do that again!

I hope I don’t suffer this time!

A strong worker waved at him. “Hey, Jamie, let me introduce myself—I’m Johnny. Come here, I’ve got some questions for you.”

All the workers around him were strong, each holding a wrench.

As a weak member of the dock, Jamie was also an illegal immigrant—he dared not resist, so he lowered his head and walked over.

When he got close, Johnny ran his hands over Jamie’s clothes, looking astonished. “Great quality—somewhat like canvas, somewhat like denim. Must be tough.”

Others heard and came over to touch it too. They worked daily and could tell good fabric from bad.

It might not be the most comfortable to wear, but for workers, it was the most practical!

Because toughness meant not just resistance to wear and corrosion, but also fewer chances of injury!

With fabric like this, even a knife slash might not cut through the garment, let alone the flesh beneath.

The most common injuries on the dock were accidents—being hit, scraped, yanked—always ending up with a bloody bruise.

If you had a suit like this, you’d clearly be safer.

The men marveled, their hands groping over Jamie’s body, even reaching into his pockets and stealing three nickels.

Seeing he’d been robbed after all, he looked heartbroken.

He earned only sixteen dollars a month—barely enough to survive—and now he’d been robbed.

The money wasn’t much, but it was for his lunch and dinner. That meant he’d go hungry today.

“Can I go now?” He sighed quietly, choosing to yield.

He was an illegal immigrant—reporting it would only make him suffer first. That was the first problem every illegal immigrant faced: their loss would always outweigh the other’s.

Besides, reporting might not help. Fifteen cents—police fuel costs might already exceed that.

Johnny cursed, “Broke bastard,” then chuckled as he stuffed the coins into his pocket, and said something Jamie couldn’t believe.

“Take off your clothes.”

Jamie stared at him, lost. “I’m sorry…”

“I said, take off your clothes.”

Jamie shook his head. “Johnny, this coat…”

A punch landed straight on Jamie’s face, sending him stumbling backward and crashing to the ground.

The workers beside Johnny still grinned and laughed, as if they were back in middle school.

“This is the third time—and the last. Don’t force me to make everyone watch you run naked across the dock.”

“Now, take off your clothes.” His face had lost all amusement, replaced by a menacing, unsettling glare.

Jamie acted as if he hadn’t heard—until someone stepped close and reached for his buttons.

He swung his arms to stop them. “I’ll fight you!”

Several big men surrounded him, kicking him until he couldn’t resist, then stripped off his clothes and left, satisfied.

He’d been kicked many times, yet the clothes were untouched—truly good fabric.

About three or four minutes later, Jamie’s friend noticed he hadn’t returned and called a companion to look for him.

By a rope post on Dock No. 1, they found Jamie wiping his tears.

“Jamie, what happened?”

His friend’s concern broke his restraint. All the discrimination, harm, and humiliation he’d suffered since arriving in the Federation exploded at once!

He cried out loudly, telling them everything he’d endured. The two men listened, fists clenched, burning with rage.

But soon, one of them slumped.

Being bullied by local dock workers was something they all faced regularly.

It always had been.

Walking peacefully, they’d be stopped by a few men demanding they hand over their pocket money—or be mocked.

It had become routine!

The two men helped Jamie, now only in his underwear and covered in bruises, back to their work zone. Many came over to ask after him, then grew angry—or resigned.

No one spoke of revenge or offered any useful idea. Most now thought only: if you can’t win, just give up.

It’s not the first time. Why bother?

But someone always refused to accept this outcome!

“This can’t end like this!” someone suddenly growled.

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