Chapter 283: Untouched Core Interests

The Workers’ Union’s influence in the Baylor Federation stemmed from its role—mediating and controlling labor-capital relations.

When workers gained power, the union would side with capitalists to suppress them. That was easy—simply provide capitalists with more cheap labor, and those rebellious workers would be forced to bow their heads to the union.

When capitalists were stronger, the union only needed to organize a few strikes during critical production periods to make them accept any condition without hesitation.

After all, a breach of contract didn’t just mean losing a deal—it meant sunk costs and massive compensation.

The union had many ways to balance labor and capital. That’s why the largest faction within the Socialist Party was the Workers’ Representatives—those who voiced the working class’s concerns in politics. They might not be loud, but they were hard to ignore.

But if Lynch bypassed the union and the factories altogether, and dealt directly with the workers—promoting them to fledgling workshop owners—then labor-capital relations would cease to exist, and the union would lose its relevance.

The Workers’ Union couldn’t afford to risk agreeing to something like this. Their greatest leverage was their control over the workers’ collective preferences.

When the union sent representatives to convince workers that something was a capitalist conspiracy, it worked—most workers, with only basic literacy and little education, were easily misled. A few strikes, some free fried chicken and beer, and they could shut down any movement. This was how they controlled the workers, and the workers had grown used to it.

And yet, just before all that, the very people who claimed to represent the working class had posed a rather ambiguous question—whether the union played any role in what Lynch had proposed.

This was a blunt probe, and a reminder from the union president of the red line that could not be crossed.

Whatever Lynch did, there had to be a link to the union—only then could the union retain its authority and continue using the working class to pursue wealth and political power.

Lynch smiled faintly as he looked at the men across from him—some feigning composure, others smiling. He suddenly thought of the dog his neighbor kept.

It was an interesting dog—always showing a goofy grin and wagging its tongue to the residents, but baring its teeth and barking furiously at community workers.

It was a clever dog. It knew how to survive. Looking at these men, Lynch couldn’t help but think of it.

He pressed his lips together. “You know, I’m still young. I want to keep studying, and I have a lot to manage. I can’t go looking for every household suited to take on my orders. I need someone to do that.”

“Select suitable families—those in need. Give them short-term training, assign them tasks or orders, and ideally, store all the finished goods in one centralized location.”

“All I need to do is check the goods and pay. Am I clear enough?”

The union members exchanged glances. The president gave a noncommittal smile. “We’ll need to discuss this, Mr. Lynch. We need to consult with experts about whether this is appropriate and legal. Sometimes, what we think is right turns out to be wrong.”

The shift in tone was obvious. The president had returned to empty platitudes, but this time it wasn’t just evasion.

In negotiations, there are generally three stances: outright rejection—where no further discussion is entertained; enthusiastic support—marked by talk of deeper collaboration; and vague ambiguity—perhaps yes, perhaps no. Though seemingly indecisive, this third kind is revealing.

Because if they truly wanted to reject Lynch, they would’ve done so already—faces cold, asking him to leave, threatening security if needed.

Not rejecting was already a form of agreement. That might not work elsewhere, but in negotiations, it usually meant yes.

The so-called discussion was just for show. They’d use the time to explore how to maximize their gain, find a stronger position, and then come back to the table.

Negotiations like this didn’t end in a day. Lynch agreed to their terms, touched briefly on a few small details, and they parted after setting the time for the next round.

Some negotiations are short, others long. During the World War ceasefire talks, for instance, both sides had barely sat down when Gephra’s foreign minister tore up the documents, cursed, and stormed out. The whole negotiation lasted less than 100 seconds—despite a week of preparation.

As Lynch walked out of the Workers’ Union headquarters, he knew the deal was essentially done. What remained was for them to act like it was a hard-won compromise—just a performance to pressure him for more benefits.

Sure enough, the moment Lynch left, the union president shut the door and convened a quick internal meeting.

“What do you think?” he asked, his smile gone. Behind closed doors, his aura of authority was unmistakable.

Anyone in his position was no ordinary figure. For the president, a promotion to full-fledged politician was only a step away—he already had the qualities of one.

A man beside him cleared his throat. “I don’t think it’s a problem. We still hold the initiative. If Lynch causes trouble, we can treat him like any other capitalist.”

And how did they deal with capitalists? Strikes, protests, demonstrations, environmental agency inspections, pressure from human rights organizations—the union had plenty of tools.

But the president frowned slightly. “This won’t be that simple. In the past, the workers stood with us because we protected their legal rights. This time, we’re dealing with someone different.”

He leaned back, fiddling with a pen. “Before, we could use laws to restrain both sides. When workers got rowdy, we gave capitalists cheap labor. When capitalists flipped the table, we invoked legal clauses. We always found a way to control both sides. Lynch is different.”

“He’s not in an employment relationship with the workers. In other words, we can’t use current laws to bind him. If he’s dissatisfied, everything he does turns into pressure on us.”

He threw the pen down. “Say he suddenly ends the partnership—workers instantly lose their income. We can’t sue him for breach of contract. There’s no legal ground to force him to comply.”

“He can simply ignore us—and we can’t do anything about it. I don’t think any existing law can help us. Instead, we’ll become the target of resentment from these ‘cooperative workshops.’”

“If Lynch stirs things up a bit, they’ll blame us for losing their orders. Eventually, they might turn on us, and we’ll have no way to fight back.”

The man beside him frowned. “Should we reject him later?”

“Reject?” The president paused. “Of course not. We agree to it. Even if we can’t get a strong foothold in his partnership model, we still gain something.”

“Besides, Lynch’s model only applies to light industry—low-tech sectors where our control is weakest. We can cooperate.”

Light industry was low-tech and low-barrier. A little training was enough. More importantly, many small and mid-sized light industry firms didn’t sign formal contracts with workers.

When orders came, they hired; when orders ended, they laid off temps. The union had little control over them.

The union’s real influence lay in tech-heavy large factories and heavy industries—where workers were more skilled, jobs more stable, and dependence on labor higher.

These workers had more reason to work with the union—they knew the only way to get better treatment from capitalists was through collective bargaining.

Since the union had little to gain in light industry anyway, and Lynch’s proposal offered benefits—why not agree?