He’s new at this, and I get it, but the workers aren’t looking for fewer hours. They’re after more money or more jobs. How he didn’t put that together is shocking to me since he ran quite a large business himself.
I lift my mug and balance it on my knee, my hand wrapped around the warm porcelain as I speak to him. “I think perhaps additional resources to hire more workers to cover the longer hours or to incentivize overtime work with higher pay rates will likely hit their mark a little more accurately.”
“Yes. Likely. But I wanted to take the path of least resistance first and see how they’d respond. The country’s transportation budget isn’t all that robust and I have a feeling what they’re after might be terms we cannot meet,” Fernando remarks.
“Perhaps.” I hold in my smirk. Maybe he’s not so daft after all. “I think the most cost-effective way to handle this would be a pay differential for overtime and see where they go from there. Adding on more jobs might be more than we can handle financially, but we’ll have to have our secretary of finance crunch better numbers to know for sure.”
“I agree. I’ll have the team start exploring these options immediately.”
“Good,” I nod. “I want this issue resolved as soon as possible. The people of Messalina deserve a transportation system that works for them, and if we can achieve that while improving the lives of the workers, then all the better.”
“What are your thoughts on meeting with the head of the union ourselves?”
I think about that for a moment. It’s rarely, if ever, done. But right now, there are no buses or trains running, and a long strike is certainly in no one’s favor.
“All right. Set it up.”
Sunlight streamsthrough the tall windows of the meeting room in Tourin, casting long shadows across the polished oak table. The air hums with tension as Fernando and Giancarlo Russo, the head of the union, stand to greet me.
“Your Majesty,” the head of the transportation union greets me curtly, his eyes cold and unyielding. He also doesn’t bow, which isn’t just disrespectful, it’s downright fucking unheard of. “I’m Giancarlo Russo. Let’s get down to business.”
I lift my eyebrow at him, unamused.
“Signori Russo,” I start, speaking in Italian since that’s how he greeted me. “While I am happy to be here today to discuss helping the people and workers of Messalina, I can tell you now, your disrespect for the throne of your country will get you nowhere.”
He gives me a displeased look but then dutifully bows. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”
He leaves it at that, and though I’d love to roll all over him, I remind myself that I’m here to negotiate, not fight.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Signori.” I extend a hand in a gesture of goodwill, and he shakes it hesitantly before taking a seat at the table. “We understand the concerns of your workers and their dissatisfaction with their current hours,” I begin, keeping my tone calm and measured. “We’re here to discuss possible solutions and ensure the well-being of both the workers and the people who rely on our transportation system.”
“Your Majesty,” Russo replies, his voice dripping with skepticism. “With all due respect, we’ve heard these empty promises before. Meanwhile, our workers are being pushed to their limits, and the people of Messalina are suffering the consequences. How can we trust that anything will change this time?”
He’s full of shit. The last transportation labor issue occurred when I was not even twenty, and he was certainly not running the union then. That I resolved within five days and without a strike.
“Signori Russo, as history shows, this is the first transportation strike in the history of Messalina, and I have already negotiated deals with your union in the past. I have no doubt we’ll be able to come to terms that everyone can live with,” I say evenly, refusing to let his confrontational attitude rattle me.
“Words are easy, King Sebastian,” he retorts, crossing his arms defensively. “Especially coming from a man who has been hiding away in his palace and not using the system of his people.”
I move to leave when he shoots forward, almost as if he’s going to physically stop me.
“My apologies, Your Majesty.”
“I understand your passion and determination. I match it for my country and people, but if you speak to me that way again, you will be forced to return to your constituents and explain why there is no deal on the table.”
“Sì. It won’t happen again.”
I sit fully down in my chair, and he blows out a quiet breath. Fernando looks like he’s about to pass out, and I throw him a sharp look, silently telling him to grow some balls with this. He’s been all but mute since we sat down.
“Now, Your Majesty, what actions do you propose to support your workers?”
I exchange a glance with Fernando, who folds his hands on the table and says, “One possibility is to hire additional workers to alleviate the workload, allowing for more reasonable hours.”
Russo’s jaw sets, and I see now exactly what he’s after. It always comes down to one thing. Money.
“Alternatively,” I offer, “we could implement a pay differential for overtime.”
“Pay differential?” Russo parrots.
