Emil Dufort stood on the factory floor of Dufort Ironworks, the air heavy with coal dust and the rhythmic clang of hammers against steel. The furnaces glowed like angry gods, casting flickering shadows across the sprawling machinery that groaned and hissed in the morning light. His boots crunched on metal shavings as he moved between workstations, eyes scanning the production lines that were his lifeline. The first batch of twenty grenades had sold to a local regiment for a thousand francs, netting a slim six hundred after materials and labor costs. It was a spark of hope, but the debt loomed like a storm cloud: forty-one thousand four hundred francs owed to suppliers, with another ten thousand needed for payroll to keep the workers from striking. Scaling production was his only way to keep the factory—and his newfound life—afloat.
The grenades were his edge. Their grooved casings, designed with knowledge from his 2025 engineering days, ensured even shrapnel spread, while a delayed fuse—tweaked with chemical insights from modern explosives—reduced friendly fire. Simple to produce with the factory's existing presses and lathes, they could shift the war's brutal arithmetic without rewriting history overnight. But scaling to fifty grenades a day meant retooling two lines, hiring more hands, and securing alloys and chemicals. That would cost at least three thousand francs, money he didn't have. Emil's hands, smudged with ink and grease, gripped a crumpled sheet where he'd sketched new production plans. His mind raced, pulling from his old life designing drones and tank prototypes. In 1914, he'd start small, save lives, maybe save France. But first, he had to save his workers.
Henriette found him near the furnaces, her apron dusted with soot from helping a worker fix a jammed belt. Her dark hair was pinned back, but strands clung to her sweat-damp forehead. "You look like you're plotting to storm Berlin single-handed," she said, her smile tired but warm, a flicker of their shared childhood in her eyes. "What's the next step, brother?"
"More grenades," Emil said, tapping his sketch with a grimy finger. "The regiment wants fifty a day. If we retool two lines, we can do it. But we need cash. Dad's contacts—any left we can tap?"
Henriette nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. "Louis mentioned General Moreau, an old friend from the Franco-Prussian War. He's honest, but stubborn as a mule. He's in Paris tomorrow. Claire's coming too—she's got a knack for charming these military types."
Emil's chest warmed at the mention of Claire, his fiancée. Her freckled smile and fierce support were a lifeline in this strange, smoke-choked world. Last night's dinner replayed in his mind: her hand squeezing his over a table of stew and cheap wine, promising a future despite the war's shadow. Henriette's steady presence, too, grounded him—sisterly nagging and all. Family was his anchor, but the pressure was relentless. He knew from history books the Great War's toll: millions dead, France nearly broken, with corrupt officials and bickering generals making it worse. Emil wasn't ready to fix a nation, but keeping his factory alive meant keeping his workers fed, their families safe. That was for France, in his quiet way.
A commotion at the factory's main door broke his thoughts. Jacques Lefevre strode in, his suit absurdly sharp against the grime of the factory floor. Emil's old schoolmate, now an aide to a war minister, grinned like he'd just won a bet at the racetrack. "Emil, you gloomy genius!" he called, tossing a half-eaten apple to a startled worker, who caught it with a laugh. "Heard your grenades are the talk of the regiment. The captain called them 'trench cleaners.' I'm stealing credit for that name, by the way."
Emil chuckled, the sound surprising him as it cut through his tension. Jacques' humor was like a spark in the dark, a reminder of lighter days. "You're useless, Jacques," he said, shaking his head. "Got anything real to offer?"
"Useless? I'm wounded!" Jacques clutched his chest theatrically, then leaned in, lowering his voice. "Moreau's one of the good ones, but the War Ministry's a cesspool. Bribes, backstabbing—you name it. I can get you a meeting with him, but bring your best pitch. And maybe a helmet for the politics." He winked, dodging a greasy rag Henriette tossed at him with a mock scowl.
They moved to the cramped office, its walls lined with shelves of ledgers and faded maps. Over bitter coffee, they hashed out a plan. Jacques' jokes lightened the mood—his tale of a minister tripping over his own ego had Henriette snorting into her cup—but his warnings stuck like tar. Corruption was everywhere. Roux, the industrialist who'd stolen Emil's prototype, was proof. Henriette had caught Roux's spy sketching designs, and Emil suspected he was already selling knockoffs to rival factories. His fists clenched at the thought. "For France," he muttered, "I'll crush that snake."
Jacques raised his cup, grinning. "That's the spirit! Just don't get us all arrested. My funeral suit's not tailored yet."
Emil laughed, but his mind churned with plans and risks. He worked late into the night, recalibrating machines with Pierre, a wiry worker who stayed despite unpaid wages. Pierre's hands were steady, his loyalty quiet but fierce. "You're different, boss," he said, wiping sweat from his brow as they wrestled a press into place. "Most owners would've run by now. You're in the dirt with us."
"Got to be," Emil said, tightening a bolt. "War's eating everyone. We don't work, we don't eat."
By dawn, the lines were ready to churn out fifty grenades a day. The cost was steep: a thousand francs borrowed from Henriette's personal savings, a sacrifice she offered without hesitation. "Family sticks together," she said, her voice soft but firm. Debt now stood at forty-two thousand four hundred francs, a number that haunted Emil's dreams. The regiment's order promised ten thousand francs for fifty grenades daily, but delivery was days away, and suppliers were circling like vultures. Emil thought of Claire's faith, Louis's gruff pride, Henriette's grit. Family pushed him forward, their faces sharper than any blueprint.
That evening, Claire visited the factory, her schoolteacher's dress dusted with chalk. She brought a basket of bread and cheese, a rare treat in war-rationed times. "You're carrying too much," she said, brushing coal dust from his cheek. Her eyes, green and fierce, held worry but also trust. "Let us help, Emil. You're not alone."
He kissed her, the factory's din fading for a moment. "I will. For us."
Jacques dropped by as the sun set, his usual swagger tempered by a grim telegram. "War's getting uglier," he said, tossing it on the desk. "Germans advancing, Paris bracing. Your grenades better work, Emil, or we're all singing the Kaiser's tune."
Henriette snorted, tossing a crust at him. "You're all drama, Jacques. Go flirt with a barmaid."
"Only the pretty ones," he shot back, winking. His joke about a minister's mustache—"like a caterpillar plotting treason"—had them all laughing, a brief escape from the weight of war.
Emil stood on the factory balcony, watching smoke curl into the twilight. The war was closing in, its shadow darkening Paris. He didn't want to lead a nation, but keeping his factory alive was a start. For his workers, for his family, for France, he'd make it work. The meeting with Moreau loomed tomorrow, a chance to secure the funds and contracts he needed. But in the back of his mind, Roux's betrayal and the War Ministry's corruption gnawed. Emil gripped the railing, his resolve hardening. He'd build his grenades, protect his designs, and keep his people safe. Whatever it took.