The morning sun barely pierced the smoke hanging over Dufort Ironworks, where Emil Dufort stood on the factory floor, surrounded by the relentless clang of presses and the hiss of steam. The air was thick with coal dust, stinging his eyes as he checked the production lines churning out fifty grenades a day. Each grenade was a small victory: grooved casings for even shrapnel, delayed fuses tweaked with chemical insights from his 2025 engineering knowledge, reducing friendly fire in the Great War's brutal trenches. But General Moreau's contract demanded a hundred grenades daily within weeks, and Emil was racing against a crushing debt of forty-eight thousand nine hundred francs, a payroll due in days, and the ever-present threat of betrayal from men like Roux, who'd already stolen his designs.
Emil moved between workstations, his boots crunching on metal shavings, his hands still raw from dousing the coal shed fire the previous day. The fire—likely sabotage—had cost five hundred francs in lost fuel, a blow that still stung. Workers nodded to him, their skepticism giving way to grudging respect. Pierre, the wiry worker who'd fought the flames beside him, tightened a press bolt nearby. "Boss, you're keeping us fed," Pierre said, his voice rough from smoke. "My boy wrote from the front—says your grenades saved his squad. Means something."
Emil clapped Pierre's shoulder, hiding a swell of pride. "For them, we keep going."
The latest delivery to the regiment—fifty grenades at fifty francs each—had grossed two thousand five hundred francs. Materials cost a thousand, labor five hundred, netting a thousand in profit. It had shaved the debt to forty-eight thousand nine hundred, but coal shortages loomed, and payroll for the workers was ten thousand francs, due by week's end. Scaling to a hundred grenades a day required more alloys, chemicals, and hands—another three thousand francs at least. Emil's modern mind, steeped in 2025 logistics, saw the path: retool the lines, streamline production, secure funds. But the path was littered with obstacles, and the war's shadow grew darker with each report of German advances.
Henriette met him in the cramped office, her ledger open, her dark hair loose from its pins after a long night balancing books. "We're hanging by a thread," she said, her pen scratching red ink across the page. "The coal shed fire set us back, and the supplier's threatening to cut us off unless we pay two thousand by tomorrow. Moreau's contract is our lifeline, but we need cash to scale."
Emil rubbed his temples, the numbers a relentless weight. "We need another investor. Dad's got more contacts, right?"
"Louis mentioned Colonel Vasseur," Henriette said, her voice cautious. "War hero, deep pockets, and he's got pull with the War Ministry. But he's prickly—doesn't trust easily. Claire's already agreed to come; her charm's our best weapon."
Emil's chest warmed at Claire's name. His fiancée's freckled smile and fierce support grounded him in this chaotic world. Last night's dinner at Louis's flat replayed: her hand in his, planning a wedding despite the war, Henriette's teasing, Jacques' jokes. Family was his anchor, keeping him from drowning in debt and betrayal. But the pressure was unrelenting. He knew from history books the Great War's toll: millions dead, France teetering, with corrupt officials like Roux profiting off soldiers' blood. Emil didn't want to lead a nation—he barely wanted to lead a factory—but saving his workers was a start, a quiet act for France.
Jacques Lefevre burst into the office, his suit somehow pristine despite the factory's grime. "Emil, you brooding genius!" he called, waving a telegram like a victory flag. "Moreau's singing your praises—soldiers love the grenades. They're calling them 'Dufort's Devils' now. My nickname was better, but I'll let it slide." He grinned, tossing a half-eaten pear to Henriette, who caught it with a scowl.
Emil chuckled, Jacques' humor a spark in the gloom. "Any real news, or just here to eat our fruit?"
"Real news!" Jacques said, flopping into a chair. "Vasseur's in Paris, and I got you a meeting tonight. But he's a hard nut—thinks most industrialists are crooks. Also, word is Roux's doubling down, selling your grenade knockoffs to a rival factory. They're shoddy, but cheap."
Emil's fists clenched. Roux again. "We exposed his duds," he said. "What's he playing at?"
Jacques shrugged, his grin sly. "He's got friends in low places. I heard it in a bar—his aide was boasting. You stung him, but he's not done."
Emil's mind raced. He'd outsmarted Roux with fake designs, but the man was relentless, a symptom of the War Ministry's rot. Emil planned to tighten security, maybe hire guards, but that cost money. For now, he focused on Vasseur. The meeting was at a Paris club, a smoky den of officers and politicians. Claire was there, her simple dress outshining the gaudy gowns around her. She smiled at Colonel Vasseur, a barrel-chested man with a scarred face and a mustache that seemed to have its own opinions. Louis sat beside Emil, his presence a quiet strength, while Jacques lounged nearby, sipping wine and winking at waitresses.
"Your grenades work," Vasseur said, his voice gruff as he studied Emil's sketch. "Soldiers talk about them. I'll fund ten thousand francs for two hundred grenades a day, but I want weekly reports and a guarantee you'll deliver."
Emil's heart pounded. Ten thousand was steep, pushing debt higher, but the contract could gross twenty thousand francs a month, netting eight thousand after costs. "Done," he said, shaking Vasseur's hand. "We'll deliver."
Jacques raised his glass. "To Emil, the man making mustaches jealous across France."
Vasseur snorted, a rare smile cracking his face. "Keep your friend in check, Dufort. He's a liability."
Claire laughed, her hand on Emil's arm. "He's our liability," she said, her eyes warm. Emil felt her strength, a reminder of why he fought. Back at the factory, production ramped up. Vasseur's ten thousand bought alloys and labor, and the lines began churning out a hundred grenades daily. The first week grossed twelve thousand francs, with six thousand for materials and two thousand for labor, netting four thousand. Debt dropped to forty-four thousand nine hundred, a small victory.
But betrayal struck. Henriette caught Vasseur's aide sketching designs in the factory yard, his pencil flying over a stolen blueprint. "Out!" she shouted, grabbing his arm. Emil confronted Vasseur at the club, his anger barely contained. "Your man's stealing for France's enemies," he said.
Vasseur's face darkened, and he fired the aide on the spot. "Honest mistake," he growled. "Won't happen again."
Jacques snorted, leaning in. "Honest as a fox in a henhouse, Colonel."
Emil hired guards, costing five hundred francs, pushing debt to forty-five thousand four hundred. He worked late, recalibrating presses, his hands blistered. Claire brought coffee, her eyes worried. "You're carrying too much," she said, brushing his hair back. "We're here."
Henriette stayed, helping with sketches, her teasing a reminder of their childhood. "You're still the boy who tried to build a flying bicycle," she said, laughing.
Emil grinned, exhausted. "It almost worked."
Family dinner at Louis's was a bright spot. Louis shared stories of his engineering days, his voice cracking when he mentioned Emil's mother. Claire planned their engagement party, her optimism a beacon. Jacques mocked a minister's speech as "a cow choking on hay," earning laughs. "You're all hopeless," he said, dodging Henriette's swat.
Emil leaned back, watching them. Family was his refuge, but the war's weight grew. Germans advanced, Paris braced for siege, and corruption festered in the War Ministry. Emil didn't want power, but if men like Roux and Vasseur's aides 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.