Chapter 98: Confusion and the Labor Union

The weather gradually grew cooler, which made life easier for those fat men, at least they no longer had to sweat under the blazing sun.

Johnny sat pale in the prescription doctor’s office of a pharmacy, handing over the slip in his hand.

The doctor across from him glanced at it briefly, then looked at his arms, curious. “Mind if I take a look?”

Johnny shook his head. “Of course not, as long as you prescribe me the medicine.”

The doctor examined Johnny’s fractured arms; they were healing well.

The radius is a bone prone to fracture; violent impact naturally causes breaks, and recovery isn’t long, even though Johnny is older.

Moreover, it doesn’t significantly affect daily life.

From the examination, the doctor could tell the recovery was quite good—Johnny could already apply some force when gripping.

But strangely, he kept saying his arms ached at regular intervals—with unbearable pain.

The hospital had recently run into issues and refused to supply him with painkillers, so his attending physician referred him here.

“Though I don’t understand why you’re in pain, if you need it, we can give it to you.”

“Do you know how to use it?”

Johnny nodded eagerly. The doctor tore off the prescription and handed it to him; he glanced at it and couldn’t help exclaiming, “This is over a dollar more per dose than the hospital!”

The pharmacy doctor wasn’t surprised. “If you buy here, it’s not covered by insurance rebates. You can pay me the price listed here, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Or you can go to the hospital—they charge less.”

Remembering the hospital had refused to give him medicine, he paid anyway.

The pharmacy doctor took a few pills, gave brief instructions on usage, and handed them over.

Watching Johnny leave, the doctor shook his head slightly—he knew this painkiller had some dependency potential, but he didn’t care.

Or rather, all the doctors in the Federation didn’t care much—so long as they relieved patient suffering and sold the drugs to generate profit for themselves and the pharmaceutical companies, they were still angels!

As for dependency?

That wasn’t their problem!

After getting the painkillers, Johnny visibly relaxed, though he himself found it strange.

His arms were almost never painful—ninety-nine percent of the time—but suddenly, without warning, the pain would strike, unbearable. Maybe it hadn’t fully healed yet, he told himself.

As he stepped out of the pharmacy, sunlight fell on his pale, unhealthy skin; behind his dazed gaze lay unease and fear of the entire city.

Lans suddenly turned his head—he thought he saw Johnny, but when he looked again, the man was already far away.

Even if it was him, he wouldn’t stop.

He had just called Vaughn, trying to arrange a meeting.

Vaughn, the generous Mr. Lans, was willing to meet him.

They still arranged to meet at the coffee shop outside the dock, where the dockworkers’ union was nearby, and Lans’s labor agency wasn’t far either.

“My colleagues asked me to thank you, Lans—your coffee was delicious.”

Lans couldn’t tell if he was lying, but he didn’t care. “Then take some back with you when you leave—I just saw they had donuts. Maybe your colleagues would like a donut with their coffee.”

They sat down. After the coffee arrived, Lans explained his situation: “I’m planning to open a garment factory. I need skilled workers, but I’m unfamiliar with this field—you know, there are no such jobs at the docks.”

The docks only have heavy physical labor, almost all of it unskilled.

Vaughn joked, “The Federation’s prison warden knows more skilled seamstresses!”

Lans took a moment to process it. “That’s funny.”

Vaughn looked embarrassed and quickly changed the subject. “I can’t help you with this, but I can introduce you to someone from the Labor Union.”

The Labor Union, born from the slogan “Workers of the World Unite,” is an unstoppable force—its emergence gave rise to the Federation’s greatest populist political organization!

This group, composed entirely of skilled workers, holds immense power in industry and has produced several politicians—in other words, they are the backbone of the Federation’s light and heavy industries.

Especially in heavy industry, skilled workers make all the difference; the Labor Union’s skilled workers cover every sector.

If they decide to sanction a factory, all they need to do is have every skilled worker there go on strike—the factory immediately shuts down.

Only if capitalists are willing to cut ties completely and refuse to hire skilled workers can they avoid the Labor Union’s threat.

But in heavy industry, if all workers are inexperienced, the boss would rather shut down the factory than run the assembly line.

As long as he wants to keep producing, he must negotiate with the Labor Union—this is why the Labor Union and unions were at their peak power during this era, even capable of tipping presidential elections!

As vice-chair of the dockworkers’ union, Vaughn, a member of one such union, would naturally know people from the Labor Union—they’re all labor brothers, regularly in contact and cooperating.

He pulled out a pen to write down a contact for Lans, but Lans refused. “If you don’t have anything urgent right now, we can go together.”

Vaughn considered it, then agreed. The dockworkers’ union’s main job is mediating conflicts between dockworkers and capitalists.

Right now, there’s little real conflict between dockworkers and capitalists—it’s mostly tensions with illegal immigrants, so Vaughn could leave anytime.

Lans called over the waiter. “Bring twelve coffees and twelve donuts to this address… the rest is tip.” He left five dollars—more than enough to cover the order, with about seventy or eighty cents left for tip.

What puzzled Lans was that the waiter didn’t leave immediately after taking the money—he stared at Vaughn.

Vaughn, embarrassed by the stare, cleared his throat. “I’ve already eaten today.”

The waiter finally left.

Lans looked at him, confused. Vaughn couldn’t bring himself to admit that after Lans left last time, he saw extra tip and ordered a double beef burger—so he mumbled, “Sometimes I eat lunch here—you know, our lunch hours are irregular, sometimes early, sometimes late.”

A decent excuse. Lans didn’t care much; they rose and left.

On the way, Lans suddenly remembered something. “Vaughn, can you tell me who reported us?”

“I don’t mean anything by it—I just want to talk to them. We’re all working class—we should be brothers, not enemies.”

“Maybe I can convince them, and that would reduce your workload a lot.”

He had asked Elvin to find out, but Elvin had no connections among native workers—he only knew illegal immigrants and migrants.

Illegal immigrants and migrants aren’t part of the native workers’ circle; they don’t even walk home together after work, so finding out who made the report—such a core detail—is extremely difficult.

Vaughn hesitated. Lans pressed on. “Lately I’ve been thinking—the politicians deliberately stoked anti-immigrant sentiment to create division.”

“We believe every worker brother is kind and innocent—we shouldn’t be used by capitalists and politicians. I’ll find a way to convince them.”

“And you know, I’m a Federation citizen too. On key issues, I stand with Federation citizens.”

Perhaps “Federation citizen” moved Vaughn—he finally agreed. “The list is in my office. I’ll bring it to you when we get back.”

“Thanks!” Lans smiled.

The Labor Union was in the industrial zone. The two crossed the entire city and arrived by evening—but luckily, they hadn’t finished work yet.

Vaughn knew many people there—in Jincheng, dockworkers were the top-tier labor force!

Soon he brought Lans to an office and knocked.

The sign read “Textile Workers Liaison Office,” below it the name: “Debbie Jones”—clearly a woman.

“Come in!” The voice confirmed it.

Vaughn glanced at Lans, opened the door, and gestured for him to enter first.

Inside, the office was simple but not plain. Debbie, sitting behind the desk handling paperwork, looked about thirty-five, wearing a hairband and a white dress with pink dots and puffed sleeves.

She had golden-brown hair—like Vaughn, she didn’t look like a worker at all.

That was strange—these representatives of the working class didn’t look like workers. Perhaps this was the most surreal aspect of the Federation’s political climate.

But… who cared?

The less she looked like a worker, the more comfortable Lans felt—after all, everyone knew who was easier to deal with: someone who only talked about ideals, or someone who talked about everything.

Only when Vaughn entered did Debbie smile slightly; she even stood up, showing Vaughn clearly held high standing in her eyes.

“How can I help you?”

“Chairman Vaughn?”

Vaughn laughed and stepped forward to shake Debbie’s hand as she came around the desk. “Sounds impressive—but I wouldn’t dare accept.”

Their exchange suggested they were very familiar; Lans didn’t understand.

Then Vaughn introduced Lans. “My friend, a fellow worker—Lans.”

“He runs a labor agency, helping people find jobs.”

Debbie’s eyes lit up; she reached out to shake Lans’s hand. Someone who could help secure jobs was vital to people like her, who came from the working class and served workers.

In some ways, their goals were no different from those of politicians—but only in some ways.

“Call me Debbie. Nice to meet you, Mr. Lans.”