The factory floor of Dufort Ironworks roared with life, a beast of iron and steam that pulsed under Emil Dufort's watchful eye. The air was thick with the acrid bite of coal smoke, the clang of hammers, and the hiss of pistons driving the production lines. Fifty grenades rolled out daily now, each one a testament to Emil's ingenuity: grooved casings for even shrapnel spread, delayed fuses tweaked with chemical tricks from his 2025 engineering knowledge. The design was simple yet revolutionary, reducing friendly fire and giving French soldiers a slight edge in the Great War's brutal trenches. But General Moreau's contract demanded a hundred grenades a day within weeks, and Emil was racing against time, debt, and betrayal to deliver.
He walked the floor, boots crunching on metal shavings, checking the presses that stamped grenade casings. Workers nodded to him, their skepticism softening into respect. Pierre, a wiry man with a quick smile, tightened a bolt nearby. "Boss, you're keeping us alive," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "My kids ate proper this week because of you."
Emil clapped his shoulder, hiding a swell of pride. "We're not done yet, Pierre. War's hungry."
The first delivery had gone to the regiment: fifty grenades at fifty francs each, grossing two thousand five hundred francs. Materials cost a thousand, labor five hundred, leaving a thousand in profit. It had dropped the factory's debt to forty-nine thousand four hundred, but a coal shortage forced Emil to spend another thousand on emergency fuel, pushing debt back to fifty thousand four hundred. The numbers haunted him, a relentless drumbeat in his mind. Payroll was due in days, ten thousand francs to keep the workers from walking. Moreau's contract promised twelve thousand a month for a hundred grenades daily, but scaling production meant more alloys, chemicals, and hands—another three thousand francs he didn't have.
Henriette met him in the office, her ledger open, her dark hair falling loose from its pins. "We're scraping by," she said, her voice strained as she scratched numbers in red ink. "One bad day—a broken machine, a late shipment—and we're sunk. Coal's running low again, and the supplier's threatening to cut us off."
Emil rubbed his temples, the weight of it all pressing down. "We've got Moreau's deal. If we hit a hundred grenades a day, we're in the clear. But we need cash now."
Claire arrived at noon, her schoolteacher's dress dusted with chalk, a basket of bread and cheese in hand. "You're fading, Emil," she said, kissing his cheek. Her green eyes held worry but also fierce trust. "Eat something. You're no good to us dead."
He smiled, her warmth a brief escape from the factory's grind. "For you, I'll try."
Jacques Lefevre burst through the door, waving a telegram like a flag. "Good news, genius!" he called, his suit somehow untouched by the factory's grime. "Moreau's thrilled with the first batch—soldiers are calling your grenades 'trench cleaners.' Bad news? That snake Roux is selling your design to a rival factory. Heard it in a bar last night—a drunk aide spilled."
Emil's blood boiled. Roux, the industrialist who'd stolen his prototype, was back at it. "Proof?" he demanded, his voice low.
Jacques grinned, tossing the telegram on the desk. "I'm charming, not a detective. But the aide was sloshed, bragging about Roux's new line. Sounds like your grenades, just shoddier."
Emil's fists clenched. Roux's betrayal wasn't just personal—it was a threat to France's war effort. His 2025 knowledge told him the war would drag on, millions dead, unless small edges like his grenades turned the tide. He devised a sting: he'd feed fake designs to a worker he suspected was Roux's mole, tweaking the fuse to fail harmlessly. If Roux's factory produced duds, it'd expose him. Emil shared the plan with Henriette, who nodded grimly. "Clever," she said. "But dangerous. Roux has friends in high places."
"Doesn't matter," Emil said. "He's stealing from soldiers. For France, I'll bury him."
Jacques clapped, his grin wicked. "That's the spirit! Just don't get us arrested. My jail wardrobe's not ready."
The sting worked. Emil slipped the fake designs—a fuse with a deliberate flaw—to a shifty-eyed worker named Marcel. Two days later, word came from the front: Roux's factory had delivered duds, sparking a captain's rage. Emil confronted Roux at a War Ministry meeting, Jacques at his side for backup. The room was packed with officers and officials, the air heavy with cigar smoke and tension. "Your fakes are killing soldiers," Emil said, his voice cold as steel. "Back off, or I'll drag you through every newspaper in Paris."
Roux, sleek in a tailored suit, sneered. "Prove it, boy. You're out of your depth."
Jacques leaned in, his voice low and sharp. "I know your banker, Roux. One word, and your accounts vanish. Try me."
Roux's smirk faltered, and he retreated, muttering threats. Emil knew it wasn't over, but the victory felt good. Back at the factory, trouble struck. A fire broke out in the coal shed at dusk, flames licking the wooden walls, workers coughing in thick smoke. Emil and Pierre doused it with buckets of water, their clothes soaked and faces black with soot. The damage was five hundred francs in lost coal, pushing debt to fifty thousand nine hundred. Emil suspected sabotage—Roux's doing, maybe—but had no proof.
He stood in the smoldering ruins, chest heaving. "We rebuild," he told Pierre. "No one stops us."
Pierre nodded, his loyalty unwavering. "For the boys at the front, boss."
That night, family dinner at Louis's Paris flat was a refuge. The table was sparse—stew, crusty bread, wine watered down by war rations—but the warmth was real. Louis grumbled about corruption, his gray mustache twitching as he recounted battles with bureaucrats in his engineering days. "Government's rotten," he said. "Always has been. You're doing better than I ever did, son."
Claire planned their wedding, her voice bright despite the war's shadow. "Something small," she said, squeezing Emil's hand. "Just us, family, maybe Jacques if he behaves."
Henriette snorted, tossing a crust at Jacques. "Behave? He flirts with anything that moves."
Jacques caught the crust, winking. "Only the pretty ones, Henriette. You're safe." His tale of a minister's speech—"like a cow choking on hay"—had them all laughing, the sound a brief escape from the weight of war.
Emil leaned back, watching them. Family was his anchor, keeping him from drowning in debt and betrayal. The latest delivery had netted two thousand francs profit, dropping debt to forty-eight thousand nine hundred. But coal shortages loomed again, and Roux's shadow lingered. Emil worked past midnight, recalibrating machines, his hands raw. Claire brought coffee, her presence a quiet strength. "You're carrying France," she said, brushing his hair back. "But don't lose yourself."
Henriette stayed too, helping with sketches, her teasing a reminder of their childhood. Louis sent a note: "Proud of you, son. Keep fighting." Emil clutched it, his resolve hardening. The war was closing in—Germans advancing, Paris whispering of siege. Corruption choked the War Ministry, with men like Roux profiting while soldiers died. Emil didn't want to lead a nation, but if thieves kept stealing, he'd have to act. For now, he focused on grenades, family, and survival. The factory's pulse was his own, and he'd keep it beating, no matter the cost.